UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

Redlands  University 


j  4 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


HAWTHORNE:  IRVING:  LONGFELLOW 

WHITTIER  :  HOLMES  :  LOWELL 

THOREAU : EMERSON 


WITH    INTRODUCTIONS   AND   NOTES 
BY  HORACE   E.  \SCUDDER 


REVISED  AND  ENLARGED  EDITION' 


BOSTON   AND    NEW   YORK 
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BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

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73 
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S45 


PKEFACE. 


IN  making  a  selection  of  American  Prose  the  prin 
ciple  which  controlled  in  American  Poems  has  been 
followed.  The  book  does  not  profess  to  be  represen 
tative  of  the  authors  included,  but  complete  papers  or 
stories  have  been  taken  of  a  length  permitting  a  fair 
display  of  some  of  the  author's  characteristics.  The 
object  has  been  to  set  before  the  reader  some  of  the 
higher  forms  of  prose  art  as  interpreted  by  American 
writers,  and  to  cultivate  a  taste  for  the  enduring  ele 
ments  of  literature.  As  before,  an  attempt  has  been 
made  to  lead  the  student  from  the  simpler  to  the  more 
involved  and  subtle  forms,  and  throughout  the  book 
the  literature  of  knowledge  has  been  less  regarded 
than  the  literature  of  power.  The  best  result  will  be 
reached  if  those  who  use  this  volume  are  impelled  to 
ask  for  the  fuller  works  of  the  authors  whose  acquain 
tance  as  writers  of  prose  they  may  here  make. 

In  American  Poems  a  brief  biographical  sketch  of 
each  writer  was  given  ;  and  since  a  similar  plan  in  this 
volume  would  have  required  some  repetition,  the  edi 
tor  has  preferred  to  make  the  introductions  more  gen- 
•  eral  in  character,  with  a  view  to  suggesting  points  of 
critical  inquiry  in  literature,  for  such  a  volume  as  this 


353875 


IV  PREFACE. 

offers  a  good  opportunity  for  directing  young  stu 
dents  toward  a  more  thoughtful  attention  in  reading. 
Prose,  with  its  familiar  forms  and  its  more  intimate 
relations  to  other  studies,  is  often  a  better  field  for 
practice  in  criticism  than  poetry,  especially  as  the 
student  has  the  advantage  of  using  it  himself.  The 
writing  of  poetry  frequently  helps  in  a  critical  inter 
pretation  of  poetical  forms,  but  to  most  such  exercises 
have  an  element  of  unreality,  while  prose,  as  the 
mother  tongue  of  all,  affords  a  material  which  is  never 
strange.  It  is  worth  while,  therefore,  to  show  the 
young  what  fine  qualities  exist  in  that  which  all  men 
are  using. 

The  more  expanded  character  of  prose  makes  anno 
tation  less  necessary  than  in  poetry.  Besides,  the 
interruption  of  an  obscure  reference  is  less  fatal  to 
enjoyment  than  in  poetry.  The  editor,  therefore,  has 
given  fewer  notes  than  in  American  JPoems,  and  has 
purposely  left  work  to  be  done  by  the  reader,  the 
doing  of  which  will  add  a  zest  to  his  reading.  This  is 
most  noticeable  in  the  case  of  Emerson's  essay  on 
Books.  It  would  be  an  admirable  exercise  for  any 
young  student  to  edit  this  paper  by  making  full  refer 
ences  to  the  array  of  points  presented  in  it.  A  similar 
exercise  in  local  historical  study  could  be  found  in 
commenting  upon  Hawthorne's  sketch  of  Howe's 
Masquerade. 

Acknowledgment  is  made  to  Messrs.  G.  P.  Put 
nam's  Sons  for  their  courtesy  in  permitting  the  use  of 
the  selections  from  Irving' s  Sketch  Book. 


CONTENTS. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE.  PAOI 

INTRODUCTION    •  •......  1 

THE  SNOW-IMAGE 6 

THE  GKEAT  STONE  FACE 27 

BROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE 53 

HOWE'S  MASQUERADE 70 

WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

INTRODUCTION .89 

RIP  VAN  WINKLE £3 

LITTLE  BRITAIN 120 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

INTRODUCTION 141 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE 145 

THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN 155 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

INTRODUCTION 165 

YANKEE  GYPSIES 168 

THE  BOY  CAPTIVES 187 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

INTRODUCTION 199 

THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE      ....      203 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

INTRODUCTION  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .      '  .  227 

MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE 230 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 255 

BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES  .  285 


vi  CONTENTS. 

HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU. 

INTRODUCTION 306 

SOUNDS 311 

BRUTE  NEIGHBORS      .        .  * 329 

THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT 342 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

INTRODUCTION  .«•<•••«    367 

BEHAVIOR 370 

BOOKS  .••»••»•••  391 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


INTRODUCTION. 

IT  was  Hawthorne's  wont  to  keep  note-books,  in  which  he 
recorded  his  observations  and  reflections ;  sometimes  he 
spoke  in  them  of  himself,  his  plans,  and  his  prospects.  He 
began  the  practice  early,  and  continued  it  through  life ;  and 
after  his  death  selections  from  these  note-books  were  pub. 
lished  in  six  volumes,  under  the  titles :  Passages  from  the 
American  Note-Books  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  Passages 
from  the  English  Note-Books  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 
and  Passages  from  the  French  and  Italian  Note-Books  of 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  In  these  books,  and  in  prefaces 
which  appear  in  the  front  of  the  volumes  containing  his  col 
lected  stories,  one  finds  many  frank  expressions  of  the  interest 
which  Hawthorne  took  in  his  work,  and  the  author  appeals 
very  ingenuously  to  the  reader,  speaking  with  an  almost 
confidential  closeness  of  his  stories  and  sketches.  Then  the 
Note-Books  contain  the  unwrought  material  of  the  books 
which  the  writer  put  out  in  his  lifetime.  One  finds  there 
the  suggestions  of  stories,  and  frequently  pages  of  observa 
tion  and  reflection,  which  were  afterward  transferred,  almost 
as  they  stood,  into  the  author's  works.  It  is  very  interesting 
labor  to  trace  Hawthorne's  stories  and  sketches  back  to 
these  records  in  his  note-books,  and  to  compare  the  finished 
work  with  the  rough  material.  It  seems,  also,  as  if  each 
reader  was  admitted  into  the  privacy  of  the  author's  mind. 
That  is  the  first  impression,  but  a  closer  study  reveals  two 


2  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

facts  very  clearly.  One  is  stated  by  Hawthorne  himself  in 
his  preface  to  The  Snow-Image  and  other  Twice-Told 
Tales :  "  I  have  been  especially  careful  [in  my  Introduc 
tions]  to  make  no  disclosures  respecting  myself  which  the 
most  indifferent  observer  might  not  have  been  acquainted 
with,  and  which  I  was  not  perfectly  willing  that  my  worst 
enemy  should  know.  ...  I  have  taken  facts  which  relate 
to  myself  [when  telling  stories]  because  they  chance  to  be 
nearest  at  hand,  and  likewise  are  iny  own  property.  And, 
as  for  egotism,  a  person  who  has  been  burrowing,  to  his 
utmost  ability,  into  the  depths  of  our  common  nature  for  the 
purposes  of  psychological  romance  —  and  who  pursues  his 
researches  in  that  dusky  region,  as  he  needs  must,  as  well  by 
the  tact  of  sympathy  as  by  the  light  of  observation  —  will 
smile  at  incurring  such  an  imputation  in  virtue  of  a  little 
preliminary  talk  about  his  external  habits,  his  abode,  his 
casual  associates,  and  other  matters  entirely  upon  the  sur 
face.  These  things  hide  the  man  instead  of  displaying  him. 
You  must  make  quite  another  kind  of  inquest,  and  look 
through  the  whole  range  of  his  fictitious  characters,  good 
and  evil,  in  order  to  detect  any  of  his  essential  traits." 

There  has  rarely  been  a  writer  of  fiction,  then,  whose  per 
sonality  has  been  so  absolutely  separate  from  that  of  each 
character  created  by  him,  and  at  the  same  time  has  so  inti 
mately  penetrated  the  whole  body  of  his  writing.  Of  no 
one  of  his  characters,  male  or  female,  is  one  ever  tempted 
to  say,  This  is  Hawthorne,  except  in  the  case  of  Miles  Cov- 
erdale  in  The  Blithedale  Romance,  where  the  circumstances 
of  the  story  tempt  one  into  an  identification  ;  yet  all  Haw 
thorne's  work  is  stamped  emphatically  with  his  mark. 
Hawthorne  wrote  it,  is  very  simple  and  easy  to  say  of  all 
but  the  merest  trifle  in  his  collected  works ;  but  the  world 
has  yet  to  learn  who  Hawthorne  was,  and  even  if  he  had 
not  forbidden  a  biography  of  himself,  it  is  scarcely  likely 
that  any  life  could  have  disclosed  more  than  he  has  chosen 
himself  to  reveal. 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

The  advantage  of  this  is  that  it  leaves  the  student  free  to 
concentrate  his  attention  upon  the  writings  rather  than  on 
the  man.  Hawthorne,  in  the  passage  quoted  above,  speaks 
of  himself  as  one  "  who  has  been  burrowing,  to  his  utmost 
ability,  into  the  depths  of  our  common  nature  for  the  pur 
poses  of  psychological  romance  ;  "  and  this  states,  as  closely 
as  so  short  a  sentence  can,  the  controlling  purpose  and  end 
of  the  author.  The  vitality  of  Hawthorne's  characters  is 
derived  but  little  from  any  external  description  ;  it  resides 
in  the  truthfulness  with  which  they  respond  to  some  perma 
nent  and  controlling  operation  of  the  human  soul.  Looking 
into  his  own  heart,  and  always,  when  studying  others,  in 
search  of  fundamental  rather  than  occasional  motives,  he 
proceeded  to  develop  these  motives  in  conduct  and  life. 
Hence  he  had  a  leaning  toward  the  allegory,  where  human 
figures  are  merely  masks  for  spiritual  activities,  and  some 
times  he  employed  the  simple  allegory,  as  in  The  Celestial 
Railroad.  More  often  in  his  short  stories  he  has  a  spiritual 
truth  to  illustrate,  and  uses  the  simplest,  most  direct  means, 
taking  no  pains  to  conceal  his  purpose,  yet  touching  his 
characters  quietly  or  playfully  with  human  sensibilities,  and 
investing  them  with  just  so  much  real  life  as  answers  the 
purpose  of  the  story.  This  is  exquisitely  done  in  The  Snow- 
Image.  The  consequence  of  this  "  burrowing  into  the 
depths  of  our  common  nature  "  has  been  to  bring  much  of 
the  darker  and  concealed  life  into  the  movement  of  his 
stories.  The  fact  of  evil  is  the  terrible  fact  of  life,  and  its 
workings  in  the  human  soul  had  more  interest  for  Hawthorne 
than  the  obvious  physical  manifestations.  Since  his  obser 
vations  are  less  of  the  men  and  women  whom  everybody  sees 
and  recognizes  than  of  the  souls  which  are  hidden  from 
most  eyes,  it  is  not  strange  that  his  stories  should  often  lay 
bare  secrets  of  sin,  and  that  a  somewhat  dusky  light  should 
seem  to  be  the  atmosphere  of  much  of  his  work.  Now  and 
then,  especially  when  dealing  with  childhood,  a  warm,  sunny 
glow  spreads  over  the  pages  of  his  books ;  but  the  reader  must 


4  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

be  prepared  for  the  most  part  to  read  stories  which  lie  in 
the  shadow  of  life. 

There  was  one  class  of  subjects  which  had  a  peculiar  in 
terest  for  Hawthorne,  and  in  a  measure  affected  his  work. 
He  had  a  strong  taste  for  New  England  history,  and  he 
found  in  the  scenes  and  characters  of  that  history  favorable 
material  for  the  representation  of  spiritual  conflict.  He  was 
himself  the  most  New  English  of  New  Englanders,  and 
held  an  extraordinary  sympathy  with  the  very  soil  of  his 
section  of  the  country.  By  this  sympathy,  rather  than  by 
any  painful  research,  he  was  singularly  acquainted  with  the 
historic  life  of  New  England.  His  stories,  based  directly 
on  historic  facts,  are  true  to  the  spirit  of  the  times  in  some 
thing  more  than  an  archaeological  way.  One  is  astonished 
at  the  ease  with  which  he  seized  upon  characteristic  fea 
tures,  and  reproduced  them  in  a  word  or  phrase.  Merely 
careful  and  diligent  research  would  never  be  adequate  to 
give  the  life-likeness  of  the  images  in  Howe's  Masquerade. 

There  is,  then,  a  second  fact  discovered  by  a  study  of 
Hawthorne,  that  while  one  finds  in  the  Note-Books,  for  ex 
ample,  the  material  out  of  which  stories  and  sketches  seem 
to  have  been  constructed,  and  while  the  facts  of  New  Eng 
land  history  have  been  used  without  exaggeration  or  distor 
tion,  the  result  in  stories  and  romances  is  something  far  be 
yond  a  mere  report  of  what  has  been  seen  and  read.  The 
charm  of  a  vivifying  imagination  is  the  crowning  charm  of 
Hawthorne's  stories,  and  its  medium  is  a  graceful  and  often 
exquisitely  apt  diction.  Hawthorne's  sense  of  touch  as  a 
writer  is  very  fine.  He  knows  when  to  be  light,  and  when 
to  press  heavily ;  a  very  conspicuous  quality  is  what  one 
is  likely  to  term  quaintness,  —  a  gentle  pleasantry  which 
seems  to  spring  from  the  author's  attitude  toward  his  own 
work,  as  if  he  looked  upon  that,  too,  as  a  part  of  the  spirit 
ual  universe  which  he  was  surveying. 

Hawthorne  spent  much  of  his  life  silently,  and  there  are 
touching  passages  in  his  note-books  regarding  his  sense  of 


INTRODUCTION.  5 

loneliness  and  his  wish  for  recognition  from  the  world.  His 
early  writings  were  short  stories,  sketches,  and  biographies, 
scattered  in  magazines  and  brought  together  into  Twice- 
Told  Tales,  in  two  volumes,  published,  the  first  in  1837, 
the  second  in  1842  ;  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse,  in  1846  ; 
The  Snow-Image  and  other  Twice- Told  Tales,  in  1851. 
They  had  a  limited  circle  of  readers.  Some  recognized  his 
genius,  but  it  was  not  until  the  publication  of  The  Scarlet 
Letter,  in  1850,  that  Hawthorne's  name  was  fairly  before 
the  world  as  a  great  and  original  writer  of  romance.  The 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables  followed  in  1851 ;  The  Blithe- 
dale  Romance  in  1852.  He  spent  the  years  1853-1860  in 
Europe,  and  the  immediate  result  of  his  life  there  is  in  Our 
Old  Home :  A  Series  of  English  Sketches,  published  in 
1863,  and  The  Marble  Faun,  or  the  Romance  of  Monte 
Beni,  in  1860.  For  young  people  he  wrote  Grandfather's 
Chair,  a  collection  of  stories  from  New  England  history, 
The  Wonder-Book  and  Tanglewood  Tales,  containing 
stories  out  of  classic  mythology.  There  are  a  few  other 
scattered  writings  which  have  been  collected  into  volumes 
and  published  in  the  complete  series  of  his  works. 

Hawthorne  was  born  July  4,  1804,  and  died  May  19, 
1864. 

The  student  of  Hawthorne  will  find  in  G.  P.  Lathrop's 
A  Study  of  Hawthorne,  and  Henry  James,  Jr.'s  Hawthorne, 
in  the  series  English  Men  of  Letters,  material  which  will 
assist  him.  Dr.  Holmes  published,  shortly  after  Haw 
thorne's  death,  a  paper  of  reminiscences  which  is  included 
in  Soundings  from  the  Atlantic  ;  and  Longfellow  welcomed 
Twice- Told  Tales  with  a  glowing  article  in  the  North 
American  Review,  xlviii.  59,  which  is  reproduced  in  his 
prose  works.  The  reader  will  find  it  an  agreeable  task  to 
discover  what  the  poets,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Stedman,  and 
others,  have  said  of  this  man  of  genius. 


L 

THE   SNOW-IMAGE. 

A   CHILDISH   MIRACLE. 

ONE  afternoon  of  a  cold  winter's  day,  when  the  sun 
shone  forth  with  chilly  brightness,  after  a  long  storm, 
two  children  asked  leave  of  their  mother  to  run  out 
and  play  in  the  new-fallen  snow.  The  elder  child  was 
a  little  girl,  whom,  because  she  was  of  a  tender  and 
modest  disposition,  and  was  thought  to  be  very  beauti 
ful,  her  parents,  and  other  people  who  were  familiar 
with  her,  used  to  call  Violet.  But  her  brother  was 
known  by  the  style  and  title  of  Peony,  on  account  of 
the  ruddiness  of  his  broad  and  round  little  phiz,  which 
made  everybody  think  of  sunshine  and  great  scarlet 
flowers.  The  father  of  these  two  children,  a  certain 
Mr.  Lindsey,  it  is  important  to  say,  was  an  excellent 
but  exceedingly  matter-of-fact  sort  of  man,  a  dealer  in 
hardware,  and  was  sturdily  accustomed  to  take  what 
is  called  the  common-sense  view  of  all  matters  that 
came  under  his  consideration.  With  a  heart  about  as 
tender  as  other  people's,  he  had  a  head  as  hard  and 
impenetrable,  and  therefore,  perhaps,  as  empty,  as  one 
of  the  iron  pots  which  it  was  a  part  of  his  business  to 
sell.  The  mother's  character,  on  the  other  hand,  had 
a  strain  of  poetry  in  it,  a  trait  of  unworldly  beauty,  — 
a  delicate  and  dewy  flower,  as  it  were,  that  had  sur 
vived  out  of  her  imaginative  youth,  and  still  kept  it« 


THE  SNOW-IMAGE.  7 

self  alive  amid  the  dusty  realities  of  matrimony  and 
motherhood. 

So  Violet  and  Peony,  as  I  began  with  saying,  be 
sought  their  mother  to  let  them  run  and  play  in  the 
new  snow ;  for,  though  it  had  looked  so  dreary  and 
dismal,  drifting  downward  out  of  the  gray  sky,  it  had 
a  very  cheerful  aspect  now  that  the  sun  was  shining 
on  it.  The  children  dwelt  in  a  city,  and  had  no  wider 
play-place  than  a  little  garden  before  the  house,  di 
vided  by  a  white  fence  from  the  street,  and  with  a 
pear-tree  and  two  or  three  plum-trees  overshadowing 
it,  and  some  rose-bushes  just  in  front  of  the  parlor 
windows.  The  trees  and  shrubs,  however,  were  now 
leafless,  and  their  twigs  were  enveloped  in  the  light 
snow,  which  thus  made  a  kind  of  wintry  foliage,  with 
here  and  there  a  pendent  icicle  for  the  fruit. 

"Yes,  Violet,  —  yes,  my  little  Peony,"  said  their 
kind  mother ;  "  you  may  go  out  and  play  in  the  new 
snow." 

Accordingly,  the  good  lady  bundled  up  her  darlings 
in  woolen  jackets  and  wadded  sacks,  and  put  comfort 
ers  round  their  necks,  and.a  pair  of  striped  gaiters  on 
each  little  pair  of  legs,  and  worsted  mittens  on  their 
hands,  and  gave  them  a  kiss  apiece,  by  way  of  a 
spell  to  keep  away  Jack  Frost.  Forth  sallied  the  two 
children,  with  a  hop-skip-and-jump  that  carried  them 
at  once  into  the  very  heart  of  a  huge  snow-drift, 
whence  Violet  emerged  like  a  snow-bunting,  while  lit 
tle  Peony  floundered  out  with  his  round  face  in  full 
bloom.  Then  what  a  merry  time  had  they !  To  look 
at  them,  frolicking  in  the  wintry  garden,  you  would 
have  thought  that  the  dark  and  pitiless  storm  had 
been  sent  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  provide  a  new 
plaything  for  Violet  and  Peony ;  and  that  they  them- 


8  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

selves  had  been  created,  as  the  snow-birds  were,  to 
take  delight  only  in  the  tempest,  and  in  the  white 
mantle  which  it  spread  over  the  earth. 

At  last,  when  they  had  frosted  one  another  all  over 
with  handf uls  of  snow,  Violet,  after  laughing  heartily 
at  little  Peony's  figure,  was  struck  with  a  new  idea. 

"  You  look  exactly  like  a  snow-image,  Peony,"  said 
she,  "  if  your  cheeks  were  not  so  red.  And  that  puts 
me  in  mind !  Let  us  make  an  image  out  of  snow,  — 
an  image  of  a  little  girl,  —  and  it  shall  be  our  sister, 
and  shall  run  about  and  play  with  us  all  winter  long. 
Won't  it  be  nice?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  cried  Peony,  as  plainly  as  he  could 
speak,  for  he  was  but  a  little  boy.  "That  will  be 
nice !  And  mamma  shall  see  it !  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Violet ;  "  mamma  shall  see  the 
new  little  girl.  But  she  must  not  make  her  come  into 
the  warm  parlor  ;  for,  you  know,  our  little  snow-sister 
will  not  love  the  warmth." 

And  forthwith  the  children  began  this  great  busi 
ness  of  making  a  snow-image  that  should  run  about : 
while  their  mother,  who  was  sitting  at  the  window 
and  overheard  some  of  their  talk,  could  not  help  smil 
ing  at  the  gravity  with  which  they  set  about  it.  They 
really  seemed  to  imagine  that  there  would  be  no  diffi 
culty  whatever  in  creating  a  live  little  girl  out  of  the 
snow.  And  to  say  the  truth,  if  miracles  are  ever  to 
be  wrought,  it  will  be  by  putting  our  hands  to  the 
work  in  precisely  such  a  simple  and  undoubting  frame 
of  mind  as  that  in  which  Violet  and  Peony  now  under 
took  to  perform  one,  without  so  much  as  knowing  that 
it  was  a  miracle.  So  thought  the  mother  ;  and  thought, 
likewise,  that  the  new  snow,  just  fallen  from  heaven, 
would  be  excellent  material  to  make  new  beings  of,  if 


THE  SNOW-IMAGE.  9 

it  were  not  so  very  cold.     She  gazed  at  the  children  a 
moment  longer,  delighting  to  watch  their  little  figures, 

—  the  girl,  tall  for  her  age,  graceful  and  agile,  and  so 
delicately   colored    that   she   looked   like   a  cheerful 
thought,  more  than  a  physical  reality;  while  Peony 
expanded  in  breadth  rather  than  height,  and  rolled 
along  on  his  short  and  sturdy  legs  as  substantial  as  an 
elephant,  though  not  quite  so  big.     Then  the  mother 
resumed  her  work ;  what  it  was  I  forget,  but  she  was 
either  trimming  a  silken  bonnet  for  Violet,  or  darning 
a   pair   of   stockings  for   little    Peony's   short    legs. 
Again,  however,  and  again,  and  yet  other  agains,  she 
could  not  help  turning  her  head  to  the  window  to  see 
how  the  children  got  on  with  their  snow-image. 

Indeed,  it  was  an  exceedingly  pleasant  sight,  those 
bright  little  souls  at  their  tasks !  Moreover,  it  was 
really  wonderful  to  observe  how  knowingly  and  skil 
fully  they  managed  the  matter.  Violet  assumed  the 
chief  direction,  and  told  Peony  what  to  do,  while,  with 
her  OWF  delicate  fingers,  she  shaped  out  all  the  nicer 
parts  of  the  snow-figure.  It  seemed,  in  fact,  not  so 
much  to  be  made  by  the  children,  as  to  grow  up  under 
their  hands,  while  they  were  playing  and  prattling 
about  it.  Their  mother  was  qtiite  surprised  at  this  ; 
and  the  longer  she  looked  the  more  and  more  surprised 
she  grew. 

"  What  remarkable  children  mine  are !  "  thought 
she,  smiling  with  a  mother's  pride  ;  and,  smiling  at 
herself,  too,  for  being  so  proud  of  them.  "  What 
other  children  could  have  made  anything  so  like  a  lit 
tle  girl's  figure  out  of  snow  at  the  first  trial  ?  Well ; 

—  but  now  I  must  finish  Peony's  new  frock,  for  his 
grandfather  is  coming  to-morrow,  and  I  want  the  lit 
tle  fellow  to  look  handsome." 


10  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

So  she  took  up  the  frock,  and  was  soon  as  busily  at 
work  again  with  her  needle  as  the  two  children  with 
their  snow-image.  But  still,  as  the  needle  travelled 
hither  and  thither  through  the  seams  of  the  dress,  the 
mother  made  her  toil  light  and  happy  by  listening  to 
the  airy  voices  of  Violet  and  Peony.  They  kept  talk 
ing  to  one  another  all  the  time,  their  tongues  being 
quite  as  active  as  their  feet  and  hands.  Except  at  in 
tervals,  she  could  not  distinctly  hear  what  was  said, 
but  had  merely  a  sweet  impression  that  they  were  in 
a  most  loving  mood,  and  were  enjoying  themselves 
highly,  and  that  the  business  of  making  the  snow-im 
age  went  prosperously  on.  Now  and  then,  however, 
when  Violet  and  Peony  happened  to  raise  their  voices, 
the  words  were  as  audible  as  if  they  had  been  spoken 
in  the  very  parlor  where  the  mother  sat.  Oh,  how 
delightfully  those  words  echoed  in  her  heart,  even 
though  they  meant  nothing  so  very  wise  or  wonderful, 
after  all ! 

But  you  must  know  a  mother  listens  with  her  heart 
much  more  than  with  her  ears ;  and  thus  she  is  often 
delighted  with  the  trills  of  celestial  music,  when  other 
people  can  hear  nothing  of  the  kind. 

"  Peony,  Peony !  "  cried  Violet  to  her  brother,  who 
had  gone  to  another  part  of  the  garden,  "  bring  me 
some  of  that  fresh  snow,  Peony,  from  the  very  far 
thest  corner,  where  we  have  not  been  trampling.  1 
want  it  to  shape  our  little  snow-sister's  bosom  with. 
You  know  that  part  must  be  quite  pure,  just  as  it 
came  out  of  the  sky  !  " 

"  Here  it  is,  Violet !  "  answered  Peony,  in  his  bluff 
tone,  —  but  a  very  sweet  tone,  too,  —  as  he  came 
floundering  through  the  half -trodden  drifts.  "Here 
is  the  snow  for  her  little  bosom.  O  Violet,  how  beau- 
ti-f  ul  she  begins  to  look  !  " 


THE  SNOW-IMAGE.  11 

"  Yes,"  said  Violet,  thoughtfully  and  quietly  ;  "  our 
snow-sister  does  look  very  lovely.  I  did  not  quite 
know,  Peony,  that  we  could  mak«  such  a  sweet  little 
girl  as  this." 

The  mother,  as  she  listened,  thought  how  fit  and 
delightful  an  incident  it  would  be,  if  fairies,  or,  still 
better,  if  angel-children  were  to  come  from  paradise 
and  play  invisibly  with  her  own  darlings,  and  help 
them  to  make  their  snow-image,  giving  it  the  features 
of  celestial  babyhood  !  Violet  and  Peony  would  not 
be  aware  of  their  immortal  playmates,  —  only  they 
would  see  that  the  image  grew  very  beautiful  while 
they  worked  at  it,  and  would  think  that  they  them 
selves  had  done  it  all. 

"  My  little  girl  and  boy  deserve  such  playmates,  if 
mortal  children  ever  did !  "  said  the  mother  to  her 
self  ;  and  then  she  smiled  again  at  her  own  motherly 
pride. 

Nevertheless,  the  idea  seized  upon  her  imagination ; 
and,  ever  and  anon,  she  took  a  glimpse  out  of  the  win 
dow,  half  dreaming  that  she  might  see  the  golden- 
haired  children  of  paradise  sporting  with  her  own 
golden-haired  Violet  and  bright  cheeked  Peony. 

Now,  for  a  few  moments,  there  was  a  busy  and 
earnest,  but  indistinct  hum  of  the  two  children's 
voices,  as  Violet  and  Peony  wrought  together  with  one 
happy  consent.  Violet  still  seemed  to  be  the  guiding 
spirit,  while  Peony  acted  rather  as  a  laborer,  and 
brought  her  the  snow  from  far  and  near.  And  yet 
the  little  urchin  evidently  had  a  proper  understanding 
of  the  matter,  too ! 

"  Peony,  Peony ! "  cried  Violet ;  for  her  brother 
was  again  at  the  other  side  of  the  garden.  "  Bring 
me  those  light  wreaths  of  snow  that  have  rested  on 


12  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

the  lower  branches  of  the  pear-tree.  You  can  clamber 
on  the  snow-drift,  Peony,  and  reach  them  easily.  I 
must  have  them  to  make  some  ringlets  for  our  snow- 
sister's  head." 

"  Here  they  are,  Violet !  "  answered  the  little  boy. 
"  Take  care  you  do  not  break  them.  Well  done ! 
Well  done  !  How  pretty !  " 

"  Does  she  not  look  sweetly  ?  "  said  Violet,  with  a 
very  satisfied  tone  ;  "  and  now  we  must  have  some 
little  shining  bits  of  ice,  to  make  the  brightness  of  her 
eyes.  She  is  not  finished  yet.  Mamma  will  see  how 
very  beautiful  she  is  ;  but  papa  will  say,  '  Tush  !  non 
sense  !  —  come  in  out  of  the  cold  ! ' : 

"  Let  us  call  mamma  to  look  out,"  said  Peony ;  and 
then  he  shouted  lustily,  "  Mamma !  mamma !  !  mam 
ma  ! !  !  Look  out  and  see  what  a  nice  little  girl  we 
are  making !  " 

The  mother  put  down  her  work,  for  an  instant,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window.  But  it  so  happened  that 
the  sun  —  for  this  was  one  of  the  shortest  days  of  the 
whole  year  —  had  sunken  so  nearly  to  the  edge  of  the 
world  that  his  setting  shine  came  obliquely  into  the 
lady's  eyes.  So  she  was  dazzled,  you  must  under 
stand,  and  could  not  very  distinctly  observe  what  was 
in  the  garden.  Still,  however,  through  all  that  bright, 
blinding  dazzle  of  the  sun  and  the  new  snow  she 
beheld  a  small  white  figure  in  the  garden  that  seemed 
to  have  a  wonderful  deal  of  human  likeness  about  it. 
And  she  saw  Violet  and  Peony,  —  indeed,  she  looked 
more  at  them  than  at  the  image,  —  she  saw  the  two 
children  still  at  work  ;  Peony  bringing  fresh  snow, 
and  Violet  applying  it  to  the  figure  as  scientifically  as 
a  sculptor  adds  clay  to  his  model.  Indistinctly  as  she 
discerned  the  snow-child,  the  mother  thought  to  her- 


THE  SNOW-IMAGE.  13 

self  that  never  before  was  there  a  snow-figure  so  cun 
ningly  made,  nor  ever  such  a  dear  little  girl  and  boy 
to  make  it. 

"  They  do  everything  better  than  other  children," 
said  she,  very  complacently.  "  No  wonder  they  make 
better  snow-images !  " 

She  sat  down  again  to  the  work,  and  made  as  much 
haste  with  it  as  possible ;  because  twilight  would  soon 
come,  and  Peony's  frock  was  not  yet  finished,  and 
grandfather  was  expected,  by  railroad,  pretty  early  in 
the  morning.  Faster  and  faster,  therefore,  went  her 
flying  fingers.  The  children,  likewise,  kept  busily  at 
work  in  the  garden,  and  still  the  mother  listened, 
whenever  she  could  catch  a  word.  She  was  amused 
to  observe  how  their  little  imaginations  had  got  mixed 
up  with  what  they  were  doing,  and  were  carried  away 
by  it.  They  seemed  positively  to  think  that  the  snow- 
child  would  run  about  and  play  with  them. 

"  What  a  nice  playmate  she  will  be  for  us,  all  win 
ter  long!"  said  Violet.  "I  hope  papa  will  not  be 
afraid  of  her  giving  us  a  cold !  Shan't  you  love  her 
dearly,  Peony?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  cried  Peony.  "  And  I  will  hug  her, 
and  she  shall  sit  down  close  by  me,  and  drink  some  of 
my  warm  milk !  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Peony !  "  answered  Violet,  with  grave  wis 
dom.  "  That  will  not  do  at  all.  Warm  milk  will  not 
be  wholesome  for  our  little  snow-sister.  Little  snow- 
people,  like  her,  eat  nothing  but  icicles.  No,  no, 
Peony ;  we  must  not  give  her  anything  warm  to 
drink !  " 

There  was  a  minute  or  two  of  silence  ;  for  Peony, 
whose  short  legs  were  never  weary,  had  gone  on  a 
pilgrimage  again  to  the  other  side  of  the  garden.  All 
of  a  sudden  Violet  cried  out,  loudly  and  joyfully,  — 


14  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

"  Look  here,  Peony !  Come  quickly  !  A  light  has 
been  shining  on  her  cheek  out  of  that  rose-colored 
cloud  !  and  the  color  does  not  go  away  !  Is  not  that 
beautiful !  " 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  beau-ti-ful,"  answered  Peony,  pronoun 
cing  the  three  syllables  with  deliberate  accuracy.  "  O 
Violet,  only  look  at  her  hair  !  It  is  all  like  gold  !  " 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  said  Violet,  with  tranquillity,  as 
if  it  were  very  much  a  matter  of  course.  "  That  color, 
you  know,  conies  from  the  golden  clouds  that  we  see 
up  there  in  the  sky.  She  is  almost  finished  now.  But 
her  lips  must  be  made  very  red,  —  redder  than  her 
cheeks.  Perhaps,  Peony,  it  will  make  them  red  if  we 
both  kiss  them  !  "  f 

Accordingly,  the  mother  heard  two  smart  little 
smacks,  as  if  both  her  children  were  kissing  the  snow- 
image  on  its  frozen  mouth.  But,  as  this  did  not  seein 
to  make  the  lips  quite  red  enough,  Violet  next  pro 
posed  that  the  snow-child  should  be  invited  to  kiss 
Peony's  scarlet  cheek. 

"  Come,  'ittle  snow-sister,  kiss  me  !  "  cried  Peony. 

"  There  !  she  has  kissed  you,"  added  Violet,  "  and 
now  her  lips  are  very  red.  And  she  blushed  a  little, 
too!" 

"  Oh,  what  a  cold  kiss !  "  cried  Peony. 

Just  then  came  a  breeze  of  the  pure  west-wind, 
sweeping  through  the  garden  and  rattling  the  parlor 
windows.  It  sounded  so  wintry  cold  that  the  mother 
was  about  to  tap  on  the  window-pane  with  her  thimbled 
finger,  to  summon  the  two  children  in,  when  they  both 
cried  out  to  her  with  one  voice.  The  tone  was  not  a 
tone  of  surprise,  although  they  were  evidently  a  good 
deal  excited ;  it  appeared  rather  as  if  they  were  very 
much  rejoiced  at  some  event  that  had  now  happened, 


THE  SNOW-IMAGE,  15 

but  which  they  had  been  looking  for,  and  had  reckoned 
upon  all  along. 

"  Mamma !  mamma  !  We  have  finished  our  little 
snow-sister,  and  she  is  running  about  the  garden  with 
us!" 

"  What  imaginative  little  beings  my  children  are !  " 
thought  the  mother,  putting  the  last  few  stitches  into 
Peony's  frock.  "And  it  is  strange,  too,  that  they 
make  me  almost  as  much  a  child  as  they  themselves 
are !  I  can  hardly  help  believing,  now,  that  the  snow- 
image  has  really  come  to  life  !  " 

"  Dear  mamma !  "  cried  Violet,  "  pray  look  out  and 
see  what  a  sweet  playmate  we  have  I  " 

The  mother,  being  thus  entreated,  could  no  longer 
delay  to  look  forth  from  the  window.  The  sun  was 
now  gone  out  of  the  sky,  leaving,  however,  a  rich  in 
heritance  of  his  brightness  among  those  purple  and 
golden  clouds  which  make  the  sunsets  of  winter  so 
magnificent.  But  there  was  not  the  slightest  gleam 
or  dazzle,  either  on  the  window  or  on  the  snow ;  so 
that  the  good  lady  could  look  all  over  the  garden,  and 
see  everything  and  everybody  in  it.  And  what  do 
you  think  she  saw  there  ?  Violet  and  Peony,  of  course, 
her  own  two  darling  children.  Ah,  but  whom  or  what 
did  she  see  besides?  Why,  if  you  will  believe  me, 
there  was  a  small  figure  of  a  girl,  dressed  all  in  white, 
with  rose-tinged  cheeks  and  ringlets  of  golden  hue, 
playing  about  the  garden  with  the  two  children !  A 
stranger  though  she  was,  the  child  seemed  to  be  on  as 
familiar  terms  with  Violet  and  Peony,  and  they  with 
her,  as  if  all  the  three  had  been  playmates  during  the 
whole  of  their  little  lives.  The  mother  thought  to  her 
self  that  it  must  certainly  be  the  daughter  of  one  of 
the  neighbors,  and  that,  seeing  Violet  and  Peony  in 


16  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

the  garden,  the  child  had  run  across  the  street  to  play 
with  them.  So  this  kind  lady  went  to  the  door,  in 
tending  to  invite  the  little  runaway  into  her  comfor 
table  parlor ;  for,  now  that  the  sunshine  was  with 
drawn,  the  atmosphere  out  of  doors  was  already 
growing  very  cold. 

But,  after  opening  the  house-door,  she  stood  an  in= 
stant  on  the  threshold,  hesitating  whether  she  ought 
to  ask  the  child  to  come  in,  or  whether  she  should 
even  speak  to  her.  Indeed,  she  almost  doubted  whether 
it  were  a  real  child,  after  all,  or  only  a  light  wreath 
of  the  new-fallen  snow,  blown  hither  and  thither  about 
the  garden  by  the  intensely  cold  west-wind.  There 
was  certainly  something  very  singular  in  the  aspect  of 
the  little  stranger.  Among  all  the  children  of  the 
neighborhood,  the  lady  could  remember  no  such  face, 
with  its  pure  white,  and  delicate  rose-color,  and  the 
golden  ringlets  tossing  about  the  forehead  and  cheeks. 
And  as  for  her  dress,  which  was  entirely  of  white,  and 
fluttering  in  the  breeze,  it  was  such  as  no  reasonable 
woman  would  put  upon  a  little  girl,  when  sending  her 
out  to  play,  in  the  depth  of  winter.  It  made  this 
kind  and  careful  mother  shiver  only  to  look  at  those 
small  feet,  with  nothing  in  the  world  on  them  except 
a  very  thin  pair  of  white  slippers.  Nevertheless,  airily 
as  she  was  clad,  the  child  seemed  to  feel  not  the 
slightest  inconvenience  from  the  cold,  but  danced  so 
lightly  over  the  snow  that  the  tips  of  her  toes  left 
hardly  a  print  in  its  surface ;  while  Violet  could  but 
just  keep  pace  with  her,  and  Peony's  short  legs  com 
pelled  him  to  lag  behind. 

Once,  in  the  course  of  their  play,  the  strange  child 
placed  herself  between  Violet  and  Peony,  and  taking 
a  hand  of  each,  skipped  merrily  forward,  and  they 


THE  SNOW-IMAGE.  17 

along  with  her.  Almost  immediately,  however,  Peony 
pulled  away  his  little  fist,  and  began  to  rub  it  as  if 
the  fingers  were  tingling  with  cold  ;  while  Violet  also 
released  herself,  though  with  less  abruptness,  gravely 
remarking  that  it  was  better  not  to  take  hold  of  hands. 
The  white-robed  damsel  said  not  a  word,  but  danced 
about,  just  as  merrily  as  before.  If  Violet  and  Peony 
did  not  choose  to  play  with  her,  she  could  make  just 
as  good  a  playmate  of  the  brisk  and  cold  west- wind, 
which  kept  blowing  her  all  about  the  garden,  and  took 
such  liberties  with  her  that  they  seemed  to  have  been 
friends  for  a  long  time.  All  this  while  the  mother 
stood  on  the  threshold,  wondering  how  a  little  girl 
could  look  so  much  like  a  flying  snow-drift,  or  how  a 
snow-drift  could  look  so  very  like  a  little  girl. 

She  called  Violet,  and  whispered  to  her. 

"  Violet,  my  darling,  what  is  this  child's  name  ?  " 
asked  she.  "  Does  she  live  near  us  ?  " 

"  Why,  dearest  mamma,"  answered  Violet,  laugh 
ing  to  think  that  her  mother  did  not  comprehend  so 
very  plain  an  affair,  "  this  is  our  little  snow-sister, 
whom  we  have  just  been  making  !  " 

"  Yes,  dear  mamma,"  cried  Peony,  running  to  his 
mother,  and  looking  up  simply  into  her  face.  "  This 
is  our  snow-image  !  Is  it  not  a  nice  'ittle  child  ?  " 

At  this  instant  a  flock  of  snow-birds  came  flitting 
through  the  air.  As  was  very  natural,  they  avoided 
Violet  and  Peony.  But  —  and  this  looked  strange 
* —  they  flew  at  once  to  the  white-robed  child,  fluttered 
eagerly  about  her  head,  alighted  on  her  shoulders, 
and  seemed  to  claim  her  as  an  old  acquaintance.  She, 
on  her  part,  was  evidently  as  glad  to  see  these  little 
birds,  old  Winter's  grandchildren,  as  they  were  to  see 
her,  and  welcomed  them  by  holding  out  both  her 


18  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 

hands.  Hereupon,  they  each  and  all  tried  to  alight 
on  her  two  palrns  and  ten  small  fingers  and  thumbs, 
crowding  one  another  off,  with  an  immense  fluttering 
of  their  tiny  wings.  One  dear  little  bird  nestled  ten 
derly  in  her  bosom ;  another  put  its  bill  to  her  lips. 
They  were  as  joyous,  all  the  while,  and  seemed  as 
much  in  their  element  as  you  may  have  seen  them 
when  sporting  with  a  snow-storm. 

Violet  and  Peony  stood  laughing  at  this  pretty 
sight ;  for  they  enjoyed  the  merry  time  which  their 
new  playmate  was  having  with  these  small-winged 
visitants  almost  as  much  as  if  they  themselves  took 
part  in  it. 

"  Violet,"  said  her  mother,  greatly  perplexed,  "  tell 
me  the  truth,  without  any  jest.  Who  is  this  little 
girl?" 

"  My  darling  mamma,"  answered  Violet,  looking 
seriously  into  her  mother's  face,  and  apparently  sur 
prised  that  she  should  need  any  further  explanation, 
"  I  have  told  you  truly  who  she  is.  It  is  our  little 
snow-image,  which  Peony  and  I  have  been  making. 
Peony  will  tell  you  so,  as  well  as  I." 

"Yes,  mamma,"  asseverated  Peony,  with  much 
gravity  in  his  crimson  little  phiz ;  "  this  is  'ittle  snow- 
child.  Is  not  she  a  nice  one?  But,  mamma,  her 
hand  is,  oh,  so  very  cold  !  " 

While  mamma  still  hesitated  what  to  think  and 
what  to  do,  the  street-gate  was  thrown  open,  and  the 
father  of  Violet  and  Peony  appeared,  wrapped  in  a 
pilot-cloth  sack,  with  a  fur  cap  drawn  down  over  his 
ears,  and  the  thickest  of  gloves  upon  his  hands.  Mr. 
Lindsey  was  a  middle-aged  man,  with  a  weary  and 
yet  a  happy  look  in  his  wind-flushed  and  frost-pinched 
face,  as  if  he  had  been  busy  all  the  day  long,  and  was 


THE  SNOW-IMAGE.  19 

glad  to  get  back  to  his  quiet  home.  His  eyes  bright 
ened  at  the  sight  of  his  wife  and  children,  although 
he  could  not  help  uttering  a  word  or  two  of  surprise 
at  finding  the  whole  family  in  the  open  air,  on  so 
bleak  a  day,  and  after  sunset  too.  He  soon  perceived 
the  little  white  stranger,  sporting  to  and  fro  in  the 
garden,  like  a  dancing  snow-wreath,  a  flock  of  snow 
birds  fluttering  about  her  head. 

"  Pray,  what  little  girl  may  that  be  ?  "  inquired  this 
very  sensible  man.  "  Surely  her  mother  must  be 
crazy,  to  let  her  go  out  in  such  bitter  weather  as  it 
has  been  to-day,  with  only  that  flimsy  white  gown 
and  those  thin  slippers !  " 

"My  dear  husband,"  said  his  wife,  "I  know  no 
more  about  the  little  thing  than  you  do.  Some 
neighbor's  child,  I  suppose.  Our  Violet  and  Peony," 
she  added,  laughing  at  herself  for  repeating  so  absurd 
a  story,  "  insist  that  she  is  nothing  but  a  snow-image, 
which  they  have  been  busy  about  in  the  garden  al 
most  all  the  afternoon." 

As  she  said  this,  the  mother  glanced  her  eyes 
toward  the  spot  where  the  children's  snow-image  had 
been  made.  What  was  her  surprise,  on  perceiving 
that  there  was  not  the  slightest  trace  of  so  much  labor  ! 
—  no  image  at  all !  —  no  piled-up  heap  of  snow  !  — 
nothing  whatever  save  the  prints  of  little  footsteps 
around  a  vacant  space  ! 

"  This  is  very  strange !  "  said  she. 

"What  is  strange,  dear  mother?"  asked  Violet. 
"  Dear  father,  do  not  you  see  how  it  is  ?  This  is  our 
snow-image,  which  Peony  and  I  have  made,  because 
we  wanted  another  playmate.  Did  not  we,  Peony?" 

"  Yes,  papa,"  said  crimson  Peony.  "  This  be  our 
'ittle  snow-sister.  Is  she  not  beau-ti-ful?  But  she 
gave  me  such  a  cold  kiss  !  " 


20  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

"  Poh,  nonsense,  children !  "  cried  their  good,  hon 
est  father,  who,  as  we  have  already  intimated,  had  an 
exceedingly  common-sensible  way  of  looking  at  mat 
ters.  "  Do  not  tell  me  of  making  live  figures  out  of 
snow.  Come,  wife ;  this  little  stranger  must  not  stay 
out  in  the  bleak  air  a  moment  longer.  We  will  bring 
her  into  the  parlor  ;  and  you  shall  give  her  a  supper 
of  warm  bread  and  milk,  and  make  her  as  comfortable 
as  you  can.  Meanwhile,  I  will  inquire  among  the 
neighbors ;  or,  if  necessary,  send  the  city  crier  about 
the  streets,  to  give  notice  of  a  lost  child." 

So  saying,  this  honest  and  very  kind-hearted  man 
was  going  toward  the  little  white  damsel,  with  the 
best  intentions  in  the  world.  But  Violet  and  Peony, 
each  seizing  their  father  by  the  hand,  earnestly  be 
sought  him  not  to  make  her  come  in. 

"  Dear  father,"  cried  Violet,  putting  herself  before 
him,  "  it  is  true  what  I  have  been  telling  you !  This 
is  our  little  snow-girl,  and  she  cannot  live  any  longer 
than  while  she  breathes  the  cold  west-wind.  Do  not 
make  her  come  into  the  hot  room !  " 

"Yes,  father,"  shouted  Peony,  stamping  his  little 
foot,  so  mightily  was  he  in  earnest,  "  this  be  nothing 
but  our  'ittle  snow-child !  She  will  not  love  the  hot 
fire !  " 

"  Nonsense,  children,  nonsense,  nonsense  !  "  cried 
the  father,  half  vexed,  half  laughing  at  what  he  con 
sidered  their  foolish  obstinacy.  "  Run  into  the  house, 
this  moment !  It  is  too  late  to  play  any  longer  now. 
[  must  take  care  of  this  little  girl  immediately,  or  she 
will  catch  her  death-a-cold  !  " 

"  Husband !  dear  husband !  "  said  his  wife,  in  a 
low  voice,  —  for  she  had  been  looking  narrowly  at 
the  snow-child,  and  was  more  perplexed  than  ever,  — 


THE  SNOW-IMAGE.  21 

"  there  is  something  very  singular  in  all  this.  You 
will  think  me  foolish,  —  but —  but  — may  it  not  be  that 
some  invisible  angel  has  been  attracted  by  the  simpli 
city  and  good-faith  with  which  our  children  set  about 
their  undertaking?  May  he  not  have  spent  an  hour 
of  his  immortality  in  playing  with  those  dear  little 
souls  ?  and  so  the  result  is  what  we  call  a  miracle. 
No,  no !  Do  not  laugh  at  ine  ;  I  see  what  a  foolish 
thought  it  is !  " 

"  My  dear  wife,"  replied  the  husband,  laughing 
heartily,  "  you  are  as  much  a  child  as  Violet  and 
Peony." 

And  in  one  sense  so  she  was ;  for  all  through  life 
she  had  kept  her  heart  full  of  childlike  simplicity  and 
faith,  which  was  as  pure  and  clear  as  crystal ;  and, 
looking  at  all  matters  through  this  transparent  me 
dium,  she  sometimes  saw  truths  so  profound  that  other 
people  laughed  at  them  as  nonsense  and  absurdity. 

But  now  kind  Mr.  Lindsey  had  entered  the  garden, 
breaking  away  from  his  two  children,  who  still  sent 
their  shrill  voices  after  him,  beseeching  him  to  let  the 
snow-child  stay  and  enjoy  herself  in  the  cold  west-wind. 
As  he  approached,  the  snow-birds  took  to  flight.  The 
little  white  damsel,  also,  fled  backward,  shaking  her 
head,  as  if  to  say,  "  Pray  do  not  touch  me !  "  and  ro 
guishly,  as  it  appeared,  leading  him  through  the  deep 
est  of  the  snow.  Once,  the  good  man  stumbled,  and 
floundered  down  upon  his  face,  so  that,  gathering  him 
self  up  again,  with  the  snow  sticking  to  his  rough 
pilot-cloth  sack,  he  looked  as  white  and  wintry  as  a 
snow-image  of  the  largest  size.  Some  of  the  neigh 
bors,  meanwhile,  seeing  him  from  their  windows,  won 
dered  what  could  possess  poor  Mr.  Lindsey  to  be  run 
ning  about  his  garden  in  pursuit  of  a  snow-drift,  which 


22  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

the  west-wind  was  driving  hither  and  thither !  At 
length,  after  a  vast  deal  of  trouble,  he  chased  the  lit 
tle  stranger  into  a  corner,  where  she  could  not  possibly 
escape  him.  His  wife  had  been  looking  on,  and,  it 
being  nearly  twilight,  was  wonder-struck  to  observe 
how  the  snow-child  gleamed  and  sparkled,  and  how 
she  seemed  to  shed  a  glow  all  round  about  her  ;  and 
when  driven  into  the  corner,  she  positively  glistened 
like  a  star !  It  was  a  frosty  kind  of  brightness,  too, 
like  that  of  an  icicle  in  the  moonlight.  The  wife 
thought  it  strange  that  good  Mr.  Lindsey  should  see 
nothing  remarkable  in  the  snow-child's  appearance. 

"  Come,  you  odd  little  thing !  "  cried  the  honest 
man,  seizing  her  by  the  hand,  "  I  have  caught  you  at 
last,  and  will  make  you  comfortable  in  spite  of  your 
self.  We  will  put  a  nice,  warm  pair  of  worsted  stock 
ings  on  your  frozen  little  feet,  and  you  shall  have  a 
good  thick  shawl  to  wrap  yourself  in.  Your  poor 
white  nose,  I  am  afraid,  is  actually  frost-bitten.  But 
we  will  make  it  all  right.  Come  along  in." 

And  so,  with  a  most  benevolent  smile  on  his  saga 
cious  visage,  all  purple  as  it  was  with  the  cold,  this 
very  well-meaning  gentleman  took  the  snow-child  by 
the  hand  and  led  her  towards  the  house.  She  followed 
him,  droopingly  and  reluctant ;  for  all  the  glow  and 
sparkle  was  gone  out  of  her  figure ;  and  whereas  just 
before  she  had  resembled  a  bright,  frosty,  star-gemmed 
evening,  with  a  crimson  gleam'  on  the  cold  horizon, 
she  now  looked  as  dull  and  languid  as  a  thaw.  As 
kind  Mr.  Lindsey  led  her  up  the  steps  of  the  door, 
Violet  and  Peony  looked  into  his  face,  —  their  eyes 
full  of  tears,  which  froze  before  they  could  run  down 
their  cheeks,  —  and  again  entreated  him  not  to  bring 
their  snow-image  into  the  house. 


THE  SNOW-IMAGE.  23 

"  Not  bring  her  in  !  "  exclaimed  the  kind-hearted 
man.  "  Why,  you  are  crazy,  iny  little  Violet !  —  quite 
crazy,  my  small  Peony  !  She  is  so  cold,  already,  that 
her  hand  has  almost  frozen  mine,  in  spite  of  my  thick 
gloves.  Would  you  have  her  freeze  to  death  ?  " 

His  wife,  as  he  came  up  the  steps,  had  been  taking 
another  long,  earnest,  almost  awe-stricken  gaze  at  the 
little  white  stranger.  She  hardly  knew  whether  it 
was  a  dream  or  no  ;  ljut  she  could  not  help  fancying 
that  she  saw  the  delicate  print  of  Violet's  fingers  on 
the  child's  neck.  It  looked  as  if,  while  Violet  was 
shaping  out  the  image,  she  had  given  it  a  gentle  pat 
with  her  hand,  and  had  neglected  to  smooth  the  im 
pression  quite  away. 

"  After  all,  husband,"  said  the  mother,  recurring  to 
her  idea  that  the  angels  would  be  as  much  delighted 
to  play  with  Violet  and  Peony  as  she  herself  was,  — 
"  after  all,  she  does  look  strangely  lik^  a  snow-image  ! 
I  do  believe  she  is  made  out  of  snow ! 

A  puff  of  the  west-wind  blew  against  he  snow-child, 
and  again  she  sparkled  like  a  star. 

"  Snow  !  "  repeated  good  Mr.  Lindsey,  drawing  the 
reluctant  guest  over  his  hospitable  threshold.  "  No 
wonder  she  looks  like  snow.  She  is  half  frozen,  poor 
little  thing !  But  a  good  fire  will  put  everything  to 
rights." 

Without  further  talk,  and  always  with  the  same 
best  intentions,  this  highly  benevolent  and  common- 
sensible  individual  led  the  little  white  damsel  —  droop 
ing,  drooping,  drooping,  more  and  more  —  out  of  the 
frosty  air,  and  into  his  comfortable  parlor.  A  Hei- 
denberg  stove,  filled  to  the  brim  with  intensely  burn 
ing  anthracite,  was  sending  a  bright  gleam  through 
the  isinglass  of  its  iron  door,  and  causing  the  vase  of 


24  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

water  on  its  top  to  fume  and  bubble  with  excitement. 
A  warm,  sultry  smell  was  diffused  throughout  the 
room.  A  thermometer  on  the  wall  farthest  from  the 
stove  stood  at  eighty  degrees.  The  parlor  was  hung 
with  red  curtains,  and  covered  with  a  red  carpet,  and 
looked  just  as  warm  as  it  felt.  The  difference  betwixt 
the  atmosphere  here  and  the  cold,  wintry  twilight  out 
of  doors,  was  like  stepping  at  once  from  Nova  Zembla 
to  the  hottest  part  of  India,  o&  from  the  North  Pole 
into  an  oven.  Oh,  this  was  a  fine  place  for  the  little 
white  stranger ! 

The  common-sensible  man  placed  the  snow-child  on 
the  hearth-rug,  right  in  front  of  the  hissing  and  fuming 
stove. 

"  Now  she  will  be  comfortable ! "  cried  Mr.  Lind- 
sey,  rubbing  his  hands  and  looking  about  him  with  the 
pleasantest  smile  you  ever  saw.  "Make  yourself  at 
home,  my  child." 

Sad,  sad  and  drooping,  looked  the  little  white  maiden, 
as  she  stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  with  the  hot  blast  of 
the  stove  striking  through  her  like  a  pestilence.  Once, 
she  threw  a  glance  wistfully  toward  the  windows,  and 
caught  a  glimpse,  through  its  red  curtains,  of  the  snow- 
covered  roofs,  and  the  stars  glimmering  frostily,  and 
all  the  delicious  intensity  of  the  cold  night.  The  bleak 
wind  rattled  the  window-panes,  as  if  it  were  summon 
ing  her  to  come  forth.  But  there  stood  the  snow-child, 
drooping  before  the  hot  stove ! 

But  the  common-sensible  man  saw  nothing  amiss. 

"  Come,  wife,"  said  he,  "  let  her  have  a  pair  of  thick 
stockings  and  a  woollen  shawl  or  blanket  directly ;  and 
tell  Dora  to  give  her  some  warm  supper  as  soon  as 
the  milk  boils.  You,  Violet  and  Peony,  amuse  your 
little  friend.  She  is  out  of  spirits,  you  see,  at  finding 


THE  SNOW-IMAGE.  25 

herself  in  a  strange  place.  For  my  part,  I  will  go  round 
among  the  neighbors,  and  find  out  where  she  belongs." 

The  mother,  meanwhile,  had  gone  in  search  of  the 
shawl  and  stockings ;  for  her  own  view  of  the  matter, 
however  subtle  and  delicate,  had  given  way,  as  it 
always  did,  to  the  stubborn  materialism  of  her  hu&= 
band.  Without  heeding  the  remonstrances  of  his  two 
children,  who  still  kept  murmuring  that  their  little 
snow-sister  did  not  love  the  warmth,  good  Mr.  Lindsey 
took  his  departure,  shutting  the  parlor-door  carefully 
behind  him.  Turning  up  the  collar  of  his  sack  over 
his  ears,  he  emerged  from  the  house,  and  had  barely 
reached  the  street-gate,  when  he  was  recalled  by  the 
screams  of  Violet  and  Peony,  and  the  rapping  of  a 
thimbled  finger  against  the  parlor  window. 

"  Husband !  husband  !  "  cried  his  wife,  showing 
her  horror-stricken  face  through  the  window-panes. 
"  There  is  no  need  of  going  for  the  child's  parents !  " 

"  We  told  you  so,  father ! "  screamed  Violet  and 
Peony,  as  he  re  entered  the  parlor.  "  You  would  bring 
her  in  ;  and  now  our  poor  —  dear  —  beau-ti-f ul  little 
snow-sister  is  thawed !  " 

And  their  own  sweet  little  faces  were  already  dis 
solved  in  tears;  so  that  their  father,  seeing  what 
strange  things  occasionally  happen  in  this  e\ery-day 
world,  felt  not  a  little  anxious  lest  his  children  might 
be  going  to  thaw  too !  In  the  utmost  perplexity,  he 
demanded  an  explanation  of  his  wife.  She  could  only 
reply,  that,  being  summoned  to  the  parlor  by  the  cries 
of  Violet  and  Peony,  she  found  no  trace  of  the  little 
white  maiden,  unless  it  were  the  remains  of  a  heap  of 
snow,  which,  while  she  was  gazing  at  it,  melted  quite 
away  upon  the  hearth-rug. 

"  And  there  you  see  all  that  is  left  of  it ! "  added 
she,  pointing  to  a  pool  of  water  in  front  of  the  stove. 


26  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Violet,  looking  reproachfully  at 
him,  through  her  tears,  "  there  is  all  that  is  left  of  our 
dear  little  snow-sister !  " 

"  Naughty  father !  "  cried  Peony,  stamping  his  foot, 
and  —  I  shudder  to  say  —  shaking  his  little  fist  at  the 
common -sensible  man.  "  We  told  you  how  it  would 
be !  What  for  did  you  bring  her  in  ?  " 

And  the  Heidenberg  stove,  through  the  isinglass  of 
its  door,  seemed  to  glare  at  poor  Mr.  Lindsey,  like  a 
red-eyed  demon,  triumphing  in  the  mischief  which  it 
had  done ! 

This,  you  will  observe,  was  one  of  those  rare  cases, 
which  yet  will  occasionally  happen,  where  common- 
sense  finds  itself  at  fault.  The  remarkable  story  of 
the  snow-image,  though  to  that  sagacious  class  of  peo 
ple  to  whom  good  Mr.  Lindsey  belongs  it  may  seem 
but  a  childish  affair,  is,  nevertheless,  capable  of  being 
vnoralized  in  various  methods,  greatly  for  their  edifica 
tion.  One  of  its  lessons,  for  instance,  might  be,  that 
it  behooves  men,  and  especially  men  of  benevolence,  to 
consider  well  what  they  are  about,  and,  before  acting 
on  their  philanthropic  purposes,  to  be  quite  sure  that 
they  comprehend  the  nature  and  all  the  relations  of 
the  business  in  hand.  What  has  been  established  as 
an  element  of  good  to  one  being  may  prove  absolute 
mischief  to  another ;  even  as  the  warmth  of  the  parlor 
was  proper  enough  for  children  of  flesh  and  blood, 
like  Violet  and  Peony,  —  though  by  no  means  very 
wholesome,  even  for  them,  —  but  involved  nothing 
short  of  annihilation  to  the  unfortunate  snow-image. 

But,  after  all,  there  is  no  teaching  anything  to  wise 
men  of  good  Mr.  Lindsey's  stamp.  They  know  every 
thing,  —  oh,  to  be  sure !  —  everything  that  has  been, 
and  everything  that  is,  and  everything  that,  by 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.        27 

future  possibility,  can  be.  And,  should  some  phenom 
enon  of  nature  or  providence  transcend  their  system, 
they  will  not  recognize  it,  even  if  it  come  to  pass 
under  their  very  noses. 

"  Wife,"  said  Mr.  Lindsey,  after  a  fit  of  silence, 
"see  what  a  quantity  of  snow  the  children  have 
brought  in  on  their  feet !  It  has  made  quite  a  puddle 
here  before  the  stove.  Pray  tell  Dora  to  bring  some 
towels  and  sop  it  up !  " 


II. 

THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE. 

ONE  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  going  down,  a 
mother  and  her  little  boy  sat  at  the  door  of  their  cot 
tage,  talking  about  the  Great  Stone  Face.  They  had 
but  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  there  it  was  plainly  to  be 
seen,  though  miles  away,  with  the  sunshine  brighten 
ing  all  its  features. 

And  what  was  the  Great  Stone  Face  ? 

Embosomed  amongst  a  family  of  lofty  mountains 
there  was  a  valley  so  spacious  that  it  contained  many 
thousand  inhabitants.  Some  of  these  good  people 
dwelt  in  log  huts,  with  the  black  forest  all  around 
them,  on  the  steep  and  difficult  hillsides.  Others  had 
their  homes  in  comfortable  farm-houses,  and  culti 
vated  the  rich  soil  on  the  gentle  slopes  or  level  surfaces 
of  the  valley.  Others,  again,  were  congregated  into 
populous  villages,  where  some  wild,  highland  rivulet, 
tumbling  down  from  its  birthplace  in  the  upper  moun 
tain  region,  had  been  caught  and  tamed  by  human  cun 
ning  and  compelled  to  turn  the  machinery  of  cotton- 
factories.  The  inhabitants  of  this  valley,  in  short,  were 


28  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

numerous,  and  of  many  modes  of  life.  But  all  of 
them,  grown  people  and  children,  had  a  kind  of  fa 
miliarity  with  the  Great  Stone  Face,  although  some 
possessed  the  gift  of  distinguishing  this  grand  natural 
phenomenon  more  perfectly  than  many  of  their  neigh 
bors. 

The  Great  Stone  Face,  then,  was  a  work  of  Nature 
in  her  mood  of  majestic  playfulness,  formed  on  the 
perpendicular  side  of  a  mountain  by  some  immense 
rocks,  which  had  been  thrown  together  in  such  a  posi 
tion  as,  when  viewed  at  a  proper  distance,  precisely  to 
resemble  the  features  of  the  human  countenance.  It 
seemed  as  if  an  enormous  giant,  or  a  Titan,  had  sculp 
tured  his  own  likeness  on  the  precipice.  There  was 
the  broad  arch  of  the  forehead,  a  hundred  feet  in 
height ;  the  nose,  with  its  long  bridge ;  and  the  vast 
lips,  which,  if  they  could  have  spoken,  would  have 
rolled  their  thunder  accents  from  one  end  of  the  val 
ley  to  the  other.  True  it  is,  that  if  the  spectator 
approached  too  near  he  lost  the  outline  of  the  gigantic 
visage,  and  could  discern  only  a  heap  of  ponderous 
and  gigantic  rocks,  piled  in  chaotic  ruin  one  upon 
another.  Retracing  his  steps,  however,  the  wondrous 
features  would  again  be  seen  ;  and  the  farther  he  with 
drew  from  them,  the  more  like  a  human  face,  with  all 
its  original  divinity  intact,  did  they  appear  ;  until,  as 
it  grew  dim  in  the  distance,  with  the  clouds  and  glori 
fied  vapor  of  the  mountains  clustering  about  it,  the 
Great  Stone  Face  seemed  positively  to  be  alive. 

It  was  a  happy  lot  for  children  to  grow  up  to  man 
hood  or  womanhood  with  the  Great  Stone  Face  before 
their  eyes,  for  all  the  features  were  noble,  and  the 
expression  was  at  once  grand  and  sweet,  as  if  it  were 
the  glow  of  a  vast,  warm  heart,  that  embraced  all 


THE   GREAT  STONE  FACE.  29 

mankind  in  its  affections,  and  had  room  for  more.  It 
was  an  education  only  to  look  at  it.  According  to  the 
belief  of  many  people,  the  valley  owed  much  of  its 
fertility  to  this  benign  aspect  that  was  continually 
beaming  over  it,  illuminating  the  clouds,  and  infusing 
its  tenderness  into  the  sunshine. 

As  we  began  with  saying,  a  mother  and  her  little 
boy  sat  at  their  cottage-door,  gazing  at  the  Great 
Stone  Face,  and  talking  about  it.  The  child's  name 
was  Ernest. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  while  the  Titanic  visage  smiled 
on  him,  "  1  wish  that  it  could  speak,  for  it  looks  so 
very  kindly  that  its  voice  must  needs  be  pleasant.  If 
I  were  to  see  a  man  with  such  a  face,  I  should  love 
him  dearly." 

"  If  an  old  prophecy  should  come  to  pass,"  an 
swered  his  mother,  "  we  may  see  a  man,  some  time  or 
other,  with  exactly  such  a  face  as  that." 

"  What  prophecy  do  you  mean,  dear  mother  ? " 
eagerly  inquired  Ernest.  "Pray  tell  me  all  about 
it!" 

So  his  mother  told  him  a  story  that  her  own  mother 
had  told  to  her,  when  she  herself  was  younger  than 
little  Ernest ;  a  story,  not  of  things  that  were  past, 
but  of  what  was  yet  to  come ;  a  story,  nevertheless, 
so  very  old,  that  even  the  Indians,  who  formerly 
inhabited  this  valley,  had  heard  it  from  their  fore 
fathers,  to  whom,  as  they  affirmed,  it  had  been  mur 
mured  by  the  mountain  streams,  and  whispered  by 
the  wind  among  the  tree-tops.  The  purport  was, 
that,  at  some  future  day,  a  child  should  be  born  here 
abouts,  who  was  destined  to  become  the  greatest  and 
noblest  personage  of  his  time,  and  whose  countenance, 
in  manhood,  should  bear  an  exact  resemblance  to  the 


80  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

Great  Stone  Face.  Not  a  few  old-fashioned  people,  and 
young  ones  likewise,  in  the  ardor  of  their  hopes,  still 
cherished  an  enduring  faith  in  this  old  prophecy.  But 
others,  who  had  seen  more  of  the  world,  had  watched 
and  waited  till  they  were  weary,  and  had  beheld  no 
man  with  such  a  face,  nor  any  man  that  proved  to  be 
much  greater  or  nobler  than  his  neighbors,  concluded 
it  to  be  nothing  but  an  idle  tale.  At  all  events,  the 
great  man  of  the  prophecy  had  not  yet  appeared. 

"  O  mother,  dear  mother !  "  cried  Ernest,  clapping 
his  hands  above  his  head,  "  I  do  hope  that  I  shall  live 
to  see  him  !  " 

His  mother  was  an  affectionate  and  thoughtful 
woman,  and  felt  that  it  was  wisest  not  to  discourage 
the  generous  hopes  of  her  little  boy.  So  she  only  said 
to  him,  "  Perhaps  you  may." 

And  Ernest  never  forgot  the  story  that  his  mother 
told  him.  It  was  always  in  his  mind,  whenever  he 
looked  upon  the  Great  Stone  Face.  He  spent  his 
childhood  in  the  log  cottage  where  he  was  born,  and 
was  dutiful  to  his  mother,  and  helpful  to  her  in  many 
things,  assisting  her  much  with  his  little  hands,  and 
more  with  his  loving  heart.  In  this  manner,  from  a 
happy  yet  often  pensive  child,  he  grew  up  to  be  a 
mild,  quiet,  unobtrusive  boy,  and  sun-browned  with 
labor  in  the  fields,  but  with  more  intelligence  bright 
ening  his  aspect  than  is  seen  in  many  lads  who  have 
been  taught  at  famous  schools.  Yet  Ernest  had  had 
no  teacher,  save  only  that  the  Great  Stone  Face  be 
came  one  to  him.  When  the  toil  of  the  day  was  over, 
he  would  gaze  at  it  for  hours,  until  he  began  to 
imagine  that  those  vast  features  recognized  him,  and 
gave  him  a  smile  of  kindness  and  encouragement, 
responsive  to  his  own  look  of  veneration.  We  must 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  31 

not  take  upon  us  to  affirm  that  this  was  a  mistake, 
although  the  face  may  have  looked  no  more  kindly  at 
Ernest  than  at  all  the  world  besides.  But  the  secret 
was,  that  the  boy's  tender  and  confiding  simplicity 
discerned  what  other  people  could  not  see  ;  and  thus 
the  love,  which  was  meant  for  all,  became  his  peculiar 
portion. 

About  this  time  there  went  a  rumor  throughout  the 
valley,  that  the  great  man,  foretold  from  ages  long 
ago,  who  was  to  bear  a  resemblance  to  the  Great 
Stone  Face,  had  appeared  at  last.  It  seems  that, 
many  years  before,  a  young  man  had  migrated  from 
the  valley  and  settled  at  a  distant  seaport,  where, 
after  getting  together  a  little  money,  he  had  set  up  as 
a  shopkeeper.  His  name  —  but  I  could  never  learn 
whether  it  was  his  real  one,  or  a  nickname  that  had 
grown  out  of  his  habits  and  success  in  life  —  was 
Gathergold.  Being  shrewd  and  active,  and  endowed 
by  Providence  with  that  inscrutable  faculty  which 
develops  itself  in  what  the  world  calls  luck,  he  became 
an  exceedingly  rich  merchant,  and  owner  of  a  whole 
fleet  of  bulky-bottomed  ships.  All  the  countries  of 
the  globe  appeared  to  join  hands  for  the  mere  purpose 
of  adding  heap  after  heap  to  the  mountainous  accu 
mulation  of  this  one  man's  wealth.  The  cold  regions 
of  the  north,  almost  within  the  gloom  and  shadow  of 
the  Arctic  Circle,  sent  him  their  tribute  in  the  shape 
of  furs ;  hot  Africa  sifted  for  him  the  golden  sands  of 
her  rivers,  and  gathered  up  the  ivory  tusks  of  her 
great  elephants  out  of  the  forests ;  the  East  came 
bringing  him  the  rich  shawls,  and  spices,  and  teas, 
and  the  effulgence  of  diamonds,  and  the  gleaming 
purity  of  large  pearls.  The  ocean,  not  to  be  behind 
hand  with  the  earth,  yielded  up  her  mighty  whales, 


32  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

that  Mr.  Gathergold  might  sell  their  oil,  and  make  a 
profit  on  it.  Be  the  original  commodity  what  it 
might,  it  was  gold  within  his  grasp.  It  might  be 
said  of  him,  as  of  Midas  in  the  fable,  that  whatever 
he  touched  with  his  finger  immediately  glistened,  and 
grew  yellow,  and  was  changed  at  once  into  sterling 
metal,  or,  which  suited  him  still  better,  into  piles  of 
coin.  And,  when  Mr.  Gathergold  had  become  so  very 
rich  that  it  would  have  taken  him  a  hundred  years 
only  to  count  his  wealth,  he  bethought  himself  of  his 
native  valley,  and  resolved  to  go  back  thither,  and 
end  his  days  where  he  was  born.  With  this  purpose 
in  view,  he  sent  a  skilful  architect  to  build  him  such  a 
palace  as  should  be  fit  for  a  man  of  his  vast  wealth  to 
live  in. 

As  I  have  said  above,  it  had  already  been  rumored 
in  the  valley  that  Mr.  Gathergold  had  turned  out  to 
be  the  prophetic  personage  so  long  and  vainly  looked 
for,  and  that  his  visage  was  the  perfect  and  undeniable 
similitude  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  People  were  the 
more  ready  to  believe  that  this  must  needs  be  the  fact, 
when  they  beheld  the  splendid  edifice  that  rose,  as  if  by 
enchantment,  on  the  site  of  his  father's  old  weather- 
beaten  farmhouse.  The  exterior  was  of  marble,  so 
dazzlingly  white  that  it  seemed  as  though  the  whole 
structure  might  melt  away  in  the  sunshine,  like  those 
humbler  ones  which  Mr.  Gathergold,  in  his  young 
play-days,  before  his  fingers  were  gifted  with  the  touch 
of  transmutation,  had  been  accustomed  to  build  of 
snow.  It  had  a  richly  ornamented  portico,  supported 
by  tall  pillars,  beneath  which  was  a  lofty  door,  studded 
with  silver  knobs,  and  made  of  a  kind  of  variegated 
wood  that  had  been  brought  from  beyond  the  sea. 
The  windows,  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling  of  each 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.        33 

stately  apartment,  were  composed,  respectively,  of  but 
one  enormous  pane  of  glass,  so  transparently  pure  that 
it  was  said  to  be  a  finer  medium  than  even  the  vacant 
atmosphere.  Hardly  anybody  had  been  permitted  to 
see  the  interior  of  this  palace ;  but  it  was  reported, 
and  with  good  semblance  of  truth,  to  be  far  more 
gorgeous  than  the  outside,  insomuch  that  whatever 
was  iron  or  brass  in  other  houses  was  silver  or  gold  in 
this;  and  Mr.  Gathergold's  bedchamber,  especially, 
made  such  a  glittering  appearance  that  no  ordinary 
man  would  have  been  able  to  close  his  eyes  there. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Gathergold  was  now  so 
inured  to  wealth,  that  perhaps  he  could  not  have 
closed  his  eyes  unless  where  the  gleam  of  it  was  cer 
tain  to  find  its  way  beneath  his  eyelids. 

In  due  time,  the  mansion  was  finished  ;  next  came 
the  upholsterers,  with  magnificent  furniture ;  then  a 
whole  troop  of  black  and  white  servants,  the  harbin 
gers  of  Mr.  Gathergold,  who,  in  his  own  majestic  per 
son,  was  expected  to  arrive  at  sunset.  Our  friend 
Ernest,  meanwhile,  had  been  deeply  stirred  by  the 
idea  that  the  great  man,  the  noble  man,  the  man  of 
prophecy,  after  so  many  ages  of  delay,  was  at  length 
to  be  made  manifest  to  his  native  valley.  He  knew, 
boy  as  he  was,  that  there  were  a  thousand  ways  in 
which  Mr.  Gathergold,  with  his  vast  wealth,  might 
transform  himself  into  an  angel  of  beneficence,  and 
assume  a  control  over  human  affairs  as  wide  and  be 
nignant  as  the  smile  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Full 
of  faith  and  hope,  Ernest  doubted  not  that  what  the 
people  said  was  true,  and  that  now  he  was  to  behold 
the  living  likeness  of  those  wondrous  features  on  the 
mountain-side.  While  the  boy  was  still  gazing  up  the 
valley,  and  fancying,  as  he  always  did,  that  the  Great 


34  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

Stone  Face  returned  his  gaze  and  looked  kindly  at 
him,  the  rumbling  of  wheels  was  heard,  approaching 
swiftly  along  the  winding  road. 

"  Here  he  comes !  "  cried  a  group  of  people  who 
were  assembled  to  witness  the  arrival.  "  Here  comes 
the  great  Mr.  Gathergold  !  " 

A  carriage  drawn  by  four  horses  dashed  round  the 
turn  of  the  road.  Within  it,  thrust  partly  out  of  the 
window,  appeared  the  physiognomy  of  a  little  old 
man,  with  a  skin  as  yellow  as  if  his  own  Midas-hand 
had  transmuted  it.  He  had  a  low  forehead,  small, 
sharp  eyes,  puckered  about  with  innumerable  wrinkles, 
and  very  thin  lips,  which  he  made  still  thinner  by 
pressing  them  forcibly  together. 

"  The  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone  Face ! " 
shouted  the  people.  "  Sure  enough,  the  old  prophecy 
is  true ;  and  here  we  have  the  great  man  come,  at 
last !  " 

And,  what  greatly  perplexed  Ernest,  they  seemed 
actually  to  believe  that  here  was  the  likeness  which 
they  spoke  of.  By  the  roadside  there  chanced  to  be 
an  old  beggar-woman  and  two  little  beggar-children, 
stragglers  from  some  far-off  region,  who,  as  the  car 
riage  rolled  onward,  held  out  their  hands  and  lifted 
up  their  doleful  voices,  most  piteously  beseeching 
charity.  A  yellow  claw  —  the  very  same  that  had 
clawed  together  so  much  wealth  —  poked  itself  out  of 
the  coach-window,  and  dropped  some  copper  coins 
upon  the  ground  ;  so  that,  though  the  great  man's 
name  seems  to  have  been  Gathergold,  he  might  just 
as  suitably  have  been  nicknamed  Scattercopper.  Still, 
nevertheless,  with  an  earnest  shout,  and  evidently  with 
as  much  good  faith  as  ever,  the  people  bellowed,  — 

"  He  is  the  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone  Face !  " 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.       35 

But  Ernest  turned  sadly  from  the  wrinkled  shrewd 
ness  of  that  sordid  visage,  and  gazed  up  the  valley, 
where,  amid  a  gathering  mist,  glided  by  the  last  sun 
beams,  he  could  still  distinguish  those  glorious  features 
which  had  impressed  themselves  into  his  soul.  Their 
aspect  cheered  him.  What  did  the  benign  lips  seem 
to  say  ? 

"  He  will  come  !  Fear  not,  Ernest ;  the  man  wil] 
come ! " 

The  years  went  on,  and  Ernest  ceased  to  be  a  boy. 
He  had  grown  to  be  a  young  man  now.  He  attracted 
little  notice  from  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  valley  ; 
for  they  saw  nothing  remarkable  in  his  way  of  life, 
save  that,  when  the  labor  of  the  day  was  over,  he  still 
loved  to  go  apart  and  gaze  and  meditate  upon  the 
Great  Stone  Face.  According  to  their  idea  of  the 
matter,  it  was  a  folly,  indeed,  but  pardonable,  inas 
much  as  Ernest  was  industrious,  kind,  and  neigh 
borly,  and  neglected  no  duty  for  the  sake  of  indulging 
this  idle  habit.  They  knew  not  that  the  Great  Stone 
Face  had  become  a  teacher  to  him,  and  that  the  senti 
ment  which  was  expressed  in  it  would  enlarge  the 
young  man's  heart,  and  fill  it  with  wider  and  deeper 
sympathies  than  other  hearts.  They  knew  not  that 
thence  would  come  a  better  wisdom  than  could  be 
learned  from  books,  and  a  better  life  than  could  be 
moulded  on  the  defaced  example  of  other  human  lives. 
Neither  did  .Ernest  know  that  the  thoughts  and  affec 
tions  which  came  to  him  so  naturally,  in  the  fields 
and  at  the  fireside,  and  wherever  he  communed  with 
himself,  were  of  a  higher  tone  than  those  which  all 
men  shared  with  him.  A  simple  soul,  —  simple  as 
when  his  mother  first  taught  him  the  old  prophecy,  — 
he  beheld  the  marvellous  features  beaming  adown  the 


36  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

valley,  and  still  wondered  that  their  human  counter- 
part  was  so  long  in  making  his  appearance. 

By  this  time  poor  Mr.  Gathergold  was  dead  and 
buried ;  and  the  oddest  part  of  the  matter  was,  that 
his  wealth,  which  was  the  body  and  spirit  of  his  ex 
istence,  had  disappeared  before  his  death,  leaving 
nothing  of  him  but  a  living  skeleton,  covered  over 
with  a  wrinkled,  yellow  skin.  Since  the  melting  away 
of  his  gold,  it  had  been  very  generally  conceded  that 
there  was  no  such  striking  resemblance,  after  all,  be 
twixt  the  ignoble  features  of  the  ruined  merchant  and 
that*  majestic  face  upon  the  mountain-side.  So  the 
people  ceased  to  honor  him  during  his  lifetime,  and 
quietly  consigned  him  to  forgetfulness  after  his  de 
cease.  Once  in  a  while,  it  is  true,  his  memory  was 
brought  up  in  connection  with  the  magnificent  palace 
which  he  had  built,  and  which  had  long  ago  been 
turned  into  a  hotel  for  the  accommodation  of  stran 
gers,  multitudes  of  whom  came  every  summer  to  visit 
that  famous  natural  curiosity,  the  Great  Stone  Face. 
Thus,  Mr.  Gathergold,  being  discredited  and  thrown 
into  the  shade,  the  man  of  prophecy  was  yet  to  come. 

It  so  happened  that  a  native-born  son  of  the  valley, 
many  years  before,  had  enlisted  as  a  soldier,  and,  af 
ter  a  great  deal  of  hard  fighting,  had  now  become  an 
illustrious,  commander.  Whatever  he  may  be  called 
in  history,  he  was  known  in  camp&  and  on  the  battle 
field  under  the  nickname  of  Old  Blood-and-Thunder0 
This  war-worn  veteran,  being  now  infirm  with  age  and 
wounds,  and  weary  of  the  turmoil  of  a  military  life, 
and  of  the  roll  of  the  drum  and  the  clangor  of  the 
trumpet,  that  had  so  long  been  ringing  in  his  ears, 
had  lately  signified  a  purpose  of  returning  to  his  na 
tive  valley,  hoping  to  find  repose  where  he  reinem- 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  3T 

bered  to  have  left  it.  The  inhabitants,  his  old  neigh 
bors  and  their  grown-up  children,  were  resolved  to 
welcome  the  renowned  warrior  with  a  salute  of  can 
non  and  a  public  dinner  ;  and  all  the  more  enthusias 
tically,  it  being  affirmed  that  now,  at  last,  the  likeness 
of  the  Great  Stone  Face  had  actually  appeared.  An 
aide-de-camp  of  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  travelling 
through  the  valley,  was  said  to  have  been  struck  with 
the  resemblance.  Moreover  the  schoolmates  and 
early  acquaintances  of  the  general  were  ready  to  testify, 
on  oath,  that  to  the  best  of  their  recollection,  the 
aforesaid  general  had  been  exceedingly  like  the  majes 
tic  image,  even  when  a  boy,  only  that  the  idea  had 
never  occurred  to  them  at  that  period.  Great,  there 
fore,  was  the  excitement  throughout  the  valley  ;  and 
many  people,  who  had  never  once  thought  of  glancing 
at  the  Great  Stone  Face  for  years  before,  now  spent 
their  time  in  gazing  at  it,  for  the  sake  of  knowing 
exactly  how  General  Blood-and-Thunder  looked. 

On  the  day  of  the  great  festival,  Ernest,  with  all 
the  other  people  of  the  valley,  left  their  work,  and 
proceeded  to  the  spot  where  the  sylvan  banquet  was 
prepared.  As  he  approached,  the  loud  voice  of  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Battleblast  was  heard,  beseeching  a  blessing 
on  the  good  things  set  before  them,  and  on  the  dis 
tinguished  friend  of  peace  in  whose  honor  they  were 
assembled.  The  tables  were  arranged  in  a  cleared 
space  of  the  woods,  shut  in  by  the  surrounding  trees, 
except  where  a  vista  opened  eastward,  and  afforded 
a  distant  view  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Over  the 
general's  chair,  which  was  a  relic  from  the  home  of 
Washington,  there  was  an  arch  of  verdant  boughs, 
with  the  laurel  profusely  intermixed,  and  surmounted 
by  his  country's  banner,  beneath  which  he  had  won 


5 


38  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

his  victories.  Our  friend  Ernest  raised  himself  on 
his  tip-toes,  in  hopes  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  celebrated 
guest ;  but  there  was  a  mighty  crowd  about  the  tables 
anxious  to  hear  the  toasts  and  speeches,  and  to  catch 
any  word  that  might  fall  from  the  general  in  reply  ; 
and  a  volunteer  company,  doing  duty  as  a  guard, 
pricked  ruthlessly  with  their  bayonets  at  any  particu 
larly  quiet  person  among  the  throng.  So  Ernest, 
being  of  an  unobtrusive  character,  was  thrust  quite 
into  the  background,  where  he  could  see  no  more  of 
Old  Blood-and-Thunder's  physiognomy  than  if  it  had 
been  still  blazing  on  the  battle-field.  To  console  him 
self,  he  turned  towards  the  Great  Stone  Face,  which, 
like  a  faithful  and  long-remembered  friend,  looked 
back  and  smiled  upon  him  through  the  vista  of  the 
forest.  Meantime,  however,  he  could  overhear  the 
remarks  of  various  individuals,  who  were  comparing 
the  features  of  the  hero  with  the  face  on  the  distant 
mountain-side. 

"  'T  is  the  same  face,  to  a  hair !  "  cried  one  man, 
cutting  a  caper  for  joy. 

"  Wonderfully  like,  that 's  a  fact !  "  responded  an 
other. 

"  Like  !  why,  I  call  it  Old  Blood-and-Thunder  him 
self  in  a  monstrous  looking-glass ! "  cried  a  third. 
"  And  why  not  ?  He  's  the  greatest  man  of  this  or 
any  other  age,  beyond  a  doubt." 

And  then  all  three  of  the  speakers  gave  a  great 
shout,  which  communicated  electricity  to  the  crowd, 
and  called  forth  a  roar  from  a  thousand  voices,  that 
went  reverberating  for  miles  among  the  mountains, 
until  you  might  have  supposed  that  the  Great  Stone 
Face  had  poured  its*  thunder-breath  into  the  cry.  All 
these  comments,  and  this  vast  enthusiasm,  served  the 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.       39 

more  to  interest  our  friend  ;  nor  did  he  think  of  ques 
tioning  that  now,  at  length,  the  mountain-visage  had 
found  its  human  counterpart.  It  is  true,  Ernest  had 
imagined  that  this  long-looked-for  personage  would 
appear  in  the  character  of  a  man  of  peace,  uttering 
wisdom,  and  doing  good,  and  making  people  happy. 
But,  taking  an  habitual  breadth  of  view,  with  all  his 
simplicity,  he  contended  that  Providence  should  choose 
its  own  method  of  blessing  mankind,  and  could  con 
ceive  that  this  great  end  might  be  effected  even  by  a 
warrior  and  a  bloody  sword,  should  inscrutable  wis 
dom  see  fit  to  order  matters  so. 

"  The  general !  the  general !  "  was  now  the  cry. 
"  Hush  !  silence  !  Old  Blood-and-Thunder  's  going 
to  make  a  speech." 

Even  so  ;  for,  the  cloth  being  removed,  the  general's 
health  had  been  drunk  amid  shouts  of  applause,  and 
he  now  stood  upon  his  feet  to  thank  the  company. 
Ernest  saw  him.  There  he  was,  over  the  shoulders 
of  the  crowd,  from  the  two  glittering  epaulets  and 
embroidered  collar  upward,  beneath  the  arch  of  green 
boughs  with  intertwined  laurel,  and  the  banner  droop 
ing  as  if  to  shade  his  brow  !  And  there,  too,  visible 
in  the  same  glance,  through  the  vista  of  the  forest, 
appeared  the  Great  Stone  Face  !  And  was  there,  in 
deed,  such  a  resemblance  as  the  crowd  had  testified  ? 
Alas,  Ernest  could  not  recognize  it.  He  beheld  a 
war-worn  and  weather-beaten  countenance,  full  of  en 
ergy,  and  expressive  of  an  iron  will ;  but  the  gentle 
wisdom,  the  deep,  broad,  tender  sympathies,  were  al 
together  wanting  in  Old  Blood-and-Thunder' s  visage ; 
and  even  if  the  Great  Stone  Face  had  assumed  his 
look  of  stern  command,  the  milder  traits  would  still 
have  tempered  it. 


40  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

"  This  is  not  the  man  of  prophecy,"  sighed  Ernest 
to  himself,  as  he  made  his  way  out  of  the  throng. 
"  And  must  the  world  wait  longer  yet  ?  " 

The  mists  had  congregated  about  the  distant  moun 
tain-side,  and  there  were  seen  the  grand  and  awful 
features  of  the  Great  Stone  Face,  awful  but  benignant, 
as  if  a  mighty  angel  were  sitting  among  the  hills  and 
enrobing  himself  in  a  cloud-vesture  of  gold  and  pur 
ple.  As  he  looked,  Ernest  could  hardly  believe  but 
that  a  smile  beamed  over  the  whole  visage,  with  a 
radiance  still  brightening,  although  without  motion  of 
the  lips.  It  was  probably  the  effect  of  the  western 
sunshine,  melting  through  the  thinly  diffused  vapors 
that  had  swept  between  him  and  the  object  that  he 
gazed  at.  But  —  as  it  always  did  —  the  aspect  of  his 
marvellous  friend  made  Ernest  as  hopeful  as  if  he 
had  never  hoped  in  vain. 

"  Fear  not,  Ernest,"  said  his  heart,  even  as  if  the 
Great  Face  were  whispering  him,  —  "  fear  not,  Ernest; 
he  will  come." 

More  years  sped  swiftly  and  tranquilly  away. 
Ernest  still  dwelt  in  his  native  valley,  and  was  now 
a  man  of  middle  age.  By  imperceptible  degrees,  he 
had  become  known  among  the  people.  Now,  as  here 
tofore,  he  labored  for  his  bread,  and  was  the  same 
simple-hearted  man  that  he  had  always  been.  But  he 
had  thought  and  felt  so  much,  he  had  given  so  many 
of  the  best  hours  of  his  life  to  unworldly  hopes  for 
some  great  good  to  mankind,  that  it  seemed  as  though 
he  had  been  talking  with  the  angels,  and  had  imbibed 
a  portion  of  their  wisdom  unawares.  It  was  visible 
in  the  calm  and  well-considered  beneficence  of  his 
daily  life,  the  quiet  stream  of  which  had  made  a  wide 
green  margin  all  along  its  course.  Not  a  day  passed 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.  41 

by  that  the  world  was  not  the  better  because  this  man, 
humble  as  he  was,  had  lived.  He  never  stepped  aside 
from  his  own  path,  yet  would  always  reach  a  blessing 
to  his  neighbor.  Almost  involuntarily,  too,  he  had 
become  a  preacher.  The  pure  and  high  simplicity  of 
his  thought,  which,  as  one  of  its  manifestations,  took 
shape  in  the  good  deeds  that  dropped  silently  from  his 
hand,  flowed  also  forth  in  speech.  He  uttered  truths 
that  wrought  upon  and  moulded  the  lives  of  those 
who  heard  him.  His  auditors,  it  may  be,  never  sus 
pected  that  Ernest,  their  own  neighbor  and  familiar 
friend,  was  more  than  an  ordinary  man ;  least  of  all 
did  Ernest  himself  suspect  it ;  but,  inevitably  as  the 
murmur  of  a  rivulet,  came  thoughts  out  of  his  mouth 
that  no  other  human  lips  had  spoken. 

When  the  people's  minds  had  had  a  little  time  to 
cool,  they  were  ready  enough  to  acknowledge  their 
mistake  in  imagining  a  similarity  between  General 
Blood-and-Thunder's  truculent  physiognomy  and  the 
benign  visage  on  the  mountain-side.  But  now,  again, 
there  were  reports  and  many  paragraphs  in  the  news 
papers,  affirming  that  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face  had  appeared  upon  the  broad  shoulders  of  a  cer 
tain  eminent  statesman.  He,  like  Mr.  Gathergold 
and  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  was  a  native  of  the  val 
ley,  but  had  left  it  in  his  early  days,  and  taken  up  the 
trades  of  law  and  politics.  Instead  of  the  rich  man's 
wealth  and  the  warrior's  sword,  he  had  but  a  tongue, 
and  it  was  mightier  than  both  together.  So  wonder 
fully  eloquent  was  he,  that  whatever  he  might  choose 
to  say,  his  auditors  had  no  choice  but  to  believe  him  ; 
wrong  looked  like  right,  and  right  like  wrong ;  for 
when  it  pleased  him  he  could  make  a  kind  of  illu 
minated  fog  with  his  mere  breath,  and  obscure  the 


42  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

natural  daylight  with  it.  His  tongue,  indeed,  was  a 
magic  instrument ;  sometimes  it  rumbled  like  the 
thunder  ;  sometimes  it  warbled  like  the  sweetest  music. 
It  was  the  blast  of  war,  —  the  song  of  peace ;  and  it 
seemed  to  have  a  heart  in  it,  when  there  was  no  such 
matter.  In  good  truth,  he  was  a  wondrous  man  ;  and 
when  his  tongue  had  acquired  him  all  other  imagina 
ble  success,  —  when  it  had  been  heard  in  halls  of 
state,  and  in  the  courts  of  princes  and  potentates,  — 
after  it  had  made  him  known  all  over  the  world,  even 
as  a  voice  crying  from  shore  to  shore,  —  it  finally  per 
suaded  his  countrymen  to  select  him  for  the  Presi 
dency.  Before  this  time,  —  indeed,  as  soon  as  he  be 
gan  to  grow  celebrated,  —  his  admirers  had  found  out 
the  resemblance  between  him  and  the  Great  Stone 
Face  ;  and  so  much  were  they  struck  by  it  that  through 
out  the  country  this  distinguished  gentleman  was 
known  by  the  name  of  Old  Stony  Phiz.  The  phrase 
was  considered  as  giving  a  highly  favorable  aspect  to 
his  political  prospects  ;  for,  as  is  likewise  the  case  with 
the  Popedom,  nobody  ever  becomes  President  without 
taking  a  name  other  than  his  own. 

While  his  friends  were  doing  their  best  to  make 
him  President,  Old  Stony  Phiz,  as  he  was  called,  set 
out  on  a  visit  to  the  valley  where  he  was  born.  Of 
course,  he  had  no  other  object  than  to  shake  hands 
with  his  fellow-citizens,  and  neither  thought  nor  cared 
about  any  effect  which  his  progress  through  the  country 
might  have  upon  the  election.  Magnificent  prepara 
tions  were  made  to  receive  the  illustrious  statesman  ; 
a  cavalcade  of  horsemen  set  forth  to  meet  him  at  the 
boundary  line  of  the  State,  and  all  the  people  left  their 
business  and  gathered  along  the  wayside  to  see  him 
pass.  Among  these  was  Ernest.  Though  more  than 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.        43 

once  disappointed,  as  we  have  seen,  he  had  such  a 
hopeful  and  confiding  nature,  that  he  was  always 
ready  to  believe  in  whatever  seemed  beautiful  and 
good.  He  kept  his  heart  continually  open,  and  thus 
was  sure  to  catch  the  blessing  from  on  high,  when  it 
should  come.  So  now  again,  as  buoyantly  as  ever,  he 
went  forth  to  behold  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face. 

The  cavalcade  came  prancing  along  the  road,  with 
a  great  clattering  of  hoofs  and  a  mighty  cloud  of  dust, 
which  rose  up  so  dense  and  high  that  the  visage  of 
the  mountain-side  was  completely  hidden  from  Er 
nest's  eyes.  All  the  great  men  of  the  neighborhood 
were  there  on  horseback ;  militia  officers,  in  uniform  ; 
the  member  of  Congress ;  the  sheriff  of  the  county ; 
the  editors  of  newspapers ;  and  many  a  farmer,  too, 
had  mounted  his  patient  steed,  with  his  Sunday  coat 
upon  his  back.  It  really  was  a  very  brilliant  specta 
cle,  especially  as  there  were  numerous  banners  flaunt 
ing  over  the  cavalcade,  on  some  of  which  were  gor 
geous  portraits  of  the  illustrious  statesman  and  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  smiling  familiarly  at  one  another, 
like  two  brothers.  If  the  pictures  were  to  be  trusted, 
the  mutual  resemblance,  it  must  be  confessed,  was 
marvellous.  We  must  not  forget  to  mention  that 
there  was  a  band  of  music,  which  made  the  echoes  of 
the  mountains  ring  and  reverberate  with  the  loud 
triumph  of  its  strains  ;  so  that  airy  and  soul-thrilling 
melodies  broke  out  among  all  the  heights  and  hollows, 
as  if  every  nook  of  his  native  valley  had  found  a  voice 
to  welcome  the  distinguished  guest.  But  the  grandest 
effect  was  when  the  far-off  mountain  precipice  flung 
back  the  music  ;  for  then  the  Great  Stone  Face  it 
self  seemed  to  be  swelling  the  triumphant  chorus,  in 


44  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

acknowledgment  that,  at  length,  the  man  of  prophecy 
was  come. 

All  this  while  the  people  were  throwing  up  their 
nats  and  shouting,  with  enthusiasm  so  contagious  that 
the  heart  of  Ernest  kindled  up,  and  he  likewise 
threw  up  his  hat,  and  shouted,  as  loudly  as  the  loud 
est,  "  Huzza  for  the  great  man !  Huzza  for  Old 
Stony  Phiz  !  "  But  as  yet  he  had  not  seen  him. 

"  Here  he  is  now !  "  cried  those  who  stood  near 
Ernest.  "  There  !  There  !  Look  at  Old  Stony  Phiz 
and  then  at  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain,  and  see  if 
they  are  not  as  like  as  two  twin-brothers  !  " 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  gallant  array,  came  an  open 
barouche,  drawn  by  four  white  horses;  and  in  the 
barouche,  with  his  raassive  head  uncovered,  sat  the 
illustrious  statesman,  Old  Stony  Phiz  himself. 

"  Confess  it,"  said  one  of  Ernest's  neighbors  to 
him,  "  the  Great  Stone  Face  has  met  its  match  at 
last!" 

Now,  it  must  be  owned  that,  at  his  first  glimpse  of 
the  countenance  which  was  bowing  and  smiling  from 
the  barouche,  Ernest  did  fancy  that  there  was  a 
resemblance  between  it  and  the  old  familiar  face  upon 
the  mountain-side.  The  brow,  with  its  massive  depth 
and  loftiness,  and  all  the  other  features,  indeed,  were 
boldly  and  strongly  hewn,  as  if  in  emulation  of  a  more 
than  heroic,  of  a  Titanic  model.  But  the  sublimity 
and  stateliness,  the  grand  expression  of  a  divine  sym 
pathy,  that  illuminated  the  mountain  visage,  and  ethe- 
realized  its  ponderous  granite  substance  into  spirit, 
might  here  be  sought  in  vain.  Something  had  been 
originally  left  out,  or  had  departed.  And  therefore 
the  marvellously  gifted  statesman  had  always  a  weary 
gloom  in  the  deep  caverns  of  his  eyes,  as  of  a  child 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.        45 

that  has  outgrown  its  playthings,  or  a  man  of  mighty 
faculties  and  little  aims,  whose  life,  with  all  its  high 
performances,  was  vague  and  empty,  because  no  high 
purpose  had  endowed  it  with  reality. 

Still  Ernest's  neighbor  was  thrusting  his  elbow  into 
his  side,  and  pressing  him  for  an  answer. 

"  Confess !  confess !  Is  not  he  the  very  picture  of 
your  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  ?  " 

"  No !  "  said  Ernest,  bluntly,  "  I  see  little  or  no 
likeness." 

"Then  so  much  the  worse  for  the  Great  Stone 
Face  I  "  answered  his  neighbor;  and  again  he  set  up  a 
shout  for  Old  Stony  Phiz. 

But  Ernest  turned  away,  melancholy,  and  almost 
despondent;  for  this  was  the  saddest  of  his  disap 
pointments,  to  behold  a  man  who  might  have  fulfilled 
the  prophecy,  and  had  not  willed  to  do  so.  Mean 
time,  the  cavalcade,  the  banners,  the  music,  the  ba 
rouches  swept  past  him,  with  the  vociferous  crowd  in 
the  rear,  leaving  the  dust  to  settle  down,  and  the 
Great  Stone  Face  to  be  revealed  again,  with  the  gran 
deur  that  it  had  worn  for  untold  centuries. 

"  Lo,  here  I  am,  Ernest ! "  the  benign  lips  seemed 
to  say.  "  I  have  waited  longer  than  thou,  and  am  not 
yet  weary.  Fear  not ;  the  man  will  come." 

The  years  hurried  onward,  treading  in  their  haste 
ou  one  another's  heels.  And  now  they  began  to  bring 
white  hairs,  and  scatter  them  over  the  head  of  Ernest ; 
they  made  reverend  wrinkles  across  his  forehead,  and 
furrows  in  his  cheeks.  He  was  an  aged  man.  But 
not  in  vain  had  he  grown  old :  more  than  the  white 
hairs  on  his  head  were  the  sage  thoughts  in  his  mind ; 
his  wrinkles  and  furrows  were  inscriptions  that  Time 
had  graved,  and  in  which  he  had  written  legends  of 


46  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

wisdom  that  had  been  tested  by  the  tenor  of  a  life. 
And  Ernest  had  ceased  to  be  obscure.  Unsought  for, 
undesired,  had  come  the  fame  which  so  many  seek, 
and  made  him  known  in  the  great  world,  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  valley  in  which  he  had  dwelt  so  quietly. 
College  professors,  and  even  the  active  men  of  cities, 
came  from  far_to  see  and  converse  with  Ernest  ,•  for 
the  report  had  gone  abroad  that  this  simple  husband 
man  had  ideas  unlike  those  of  other  men,  not  gained 
from  books,  but  of  a  higher  tone,  —  a  tranquil  and 
familiar  majesty,  as  if  he  had  been  talking  with  the 
angels  as  his  daily  friends.  Whether  it  were  sage, 
statesman,  or  philanthropist,  Ernest  received  these 
visitors  with  the  gentle  sincerity  that  had  character 
ized  him  from  boyhood,  and  spoke  freely  with  them  of 
whatever  came  uppermost,  or  lay  deepest  in  his  heart 
or  their  own.  While  they  talked  together  his  face 
would  kindle,  unawares,  and  shine  upon  them,  as  with 
a  mild  evening  light.  Pensive  with  the  fulness  of 
such  discourse,  his  guests  took  leave  and  went  their 
way  ;  and  passing  up  the  valley,  paused  to  look  at  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  imagining  that  they  had  seen  its 
likeness  in  a  human  countenance,  but  could  not 
remember  where. 

While  Ernest  had  been  growing  up  and  growing 
old,  a  bountiful  Providence  had  granted  a  new  poet  to 
this  earth.  He,  likewise,  was  a  native  of  the  valley, 
but  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  at  a  distance 
from  that  romantic  region,  pouring  out  his  sweet 
music  amid  the  bustle  and  din  of  cities.  Often,  how- 
over,  did  the  mountains  which  had  been  familiar  to 
him  in  his  childhood  lift  their  snowy  peaks  into  the 
clear  atmosphere  of  his  poetry.  Neither  was  the 
Great  Stone  Face  forgotten,  for  the  poet  had  cele- 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.       47 

brated  it  in  an  ode  which  was  grand  enough  to  have 
been  uttered  by  its  own  majestic  lips.  The  man  of 
genius,  we  may  say,  had  come  down  from  heaven  with 
wonderful  endowments.  If  he  sang  of  a  mountain, 
the  eyes  of  all  mankind  beheld  a  mightier  grandeur 
reposing  on  its  breast,  or  soaring  to  its  summit,  than 
had  before  been  seen  there.  If  his  theme  were  a 
lovely  lake,  a  celestial  smile  had  now  been  thrown  over 
it,  to  gleam  forever  on  its  surface.  If  it  were  the  vast 
old  sea,  even  the  deep  immensity  of  its  dread  bosom 
seemed  to  swell  the  higher,  as  if  moved  by  the  emo 
tions  of  the  song.  Thus  the  world  assumed  another 
and  a  better  aspect  from  the  hour  that  the  poet  blessed 
it  with  his  happy  eyes.  The  Creator  had  bestowed 
him,  as  the  last  best  touch  to  his  own  handiwork. 
Creation  was  not  finished  till  the  poet  came  to  inter 
pret,  and  so  complete  it. 

The  effect  was  no  less  high  and  beautiful  when  his 
human  brethren  were  the  subject  of  his  verse.  The 
man  or  woman,  sordid  with  the  common  dust  of  life, 
who  crossed  his  daily  path,  and  the  little  child  who 
played  in  it,  were  glorified  if  he  beheld  them  in  his 
mood  of  poetic  faith.  He  showed  the  golden  links  of 
the  great  chain  that  intertwined  them  with  an  angelic 
kindred ;  he  brought  out  the  hidden  traits  of  a  celes 
tial  birth  that  made  them  worthy  of  such  kin.  Some, 
indeed,  there  were,  who  thought  to  show  the  soundness 
of  their  judgment  by  affirming  that  all  the  beauty  and 
dignity  of  the  natural  world  existed  only  in  the  poet's 
fancy.  Let  such  men  speak  for  themselves,  who  un 
doubtedly  appear  to  have  been  spawned  forth  by  Nature 
with  a  contemptuous  bitterness ;  she  having  plastered 
them  up  out  of  her  refuse  stuff,  after  all  the  swine  were 
made.  As  respects  all  things  else,  the  poet's  ideal  was 
the  truest  truth. 


48  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

The  songs  of  this  poet  found  their  way  to  Ernest. 
He  read  them  after  his  customary  toil,  seated  on  the 
bench  before  his  cottage  door,  where  for  such  a  length 
of  time  he  had  filled  his  repose  with  thought,  by  gazing 
at  the  Great  Stone  Face.  And  now  as  he  read  stanzas 
that  caused  the  soul  to  thrill  within  him,  he  lifted  his 
eyes  to  the  vast  countenance  beaming  on  him  so  benig- 
nantly. 

"  O  majestic  friend,"  he  murmured,  addressing  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  "  is  not  this  man  worthy  to  resem 
ble  thee?" 

The  Face  seemed  to  smile,  but  answered  not  a  word. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  poet,  though  he  dwelt  so 
far  away,  had  not  only  heard  of  Ernest,  but  had  med 
itated  much  upon  his  character,  until  he  deemed  no 
thing  so  desirable  as  to  meet  this  man,  whose  untaught 
wisdom  walked  hand  in  hand  with  the  noble  simplicity 
of  his  life.  One  summer  morning,  therefore,  he  took 
passage  by  the  railroad,  and,  in  the  decline  of  the 
afternoon,  alighted  from  the  cars  at  no  great  distance 
from  Ernest's  cottage.  The  great  hotel,  which  had 
formerly  been  the  palace  of  Mr.  Gathergold,  was  close 
at  hand,  but  the  poet,  with  his  carpet-bag  on  his  arm, 
inquired  at  once  where  Ernest  dwelt,  and  was  resolved 
to  be  accepted  as  his  guest. 

Approaching  the  door,  he  there  found  the  good  old 
man,  holding  a  volume  in  his  hand,  which  alternately 
he  read,  and  then,  with  a  finger  between  the  leaves, 
looked  lovingly  at  the  Great  Stone  Face. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  the  poet.  "  Can  you  give  a 
traveller  a  night's  lodging  ?  " 

"  Willingly,"  answered  Ernest ;  and  then  he  added, 
smiling,  "  methinks  I  never  saw  the  Great  Stone  Face 
look  so  hospitably  at  a  stranger." 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.        49 

The  poet  sat  down  on  the  bench  beside  him,  and  he 
and  Ernest  talked  together.  Often  had  the  poet  held 
intercourse  with  the  wittiest  and  the  wisest,  but  never 
before  with  a  man  like  Ernest,  whose  thoughts  and 
feelings  gushed  up  with  such  a  natural  freedom,  and 
who  made  great  truths  so  familiar  by  his  simple  utter 
ance  of  them.  Angels,  as  had  been  so  often  said, 
seemed  to  have  wrought  with  him  at  his  labor  in  the 
fields ;  angels  seemed  to  have  sat  with  him  by  the  fire 
side  ;  and,  dwelling  with  angels  as  friend  with  friends, 
he  had  imbibed  the  sublimity  of  their  ideas,  and  im 
bued  it  with  the  sweet  and  lowly  charm  of  household 
words.  So  thought  the  poet.  And  Ernest,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  moved  and  agitated  by  the  living 
images  which  the  poet  flung  out  of  his  mind,  and 
which  peopled  all  the  air  about  the  cottage  door  with 
shapes  of  beauty,  both  gay  and  pensive.  The  sym 
pathies  of  these  two  men  instructed  them  with  a  pro- 
founder  sense  than  either  could  have  attained  alone. 
Their  minds  accorded  into  one  strain,  and  made  delight 
ful  music  which  neither  of  them  could  have  claimed 
as  all  his  own,  nor  distinguished  his  own  share  from 
the  other's.  They  led  one  another,  as  it  were,  into  a 
high  pavilion  of  their  thoughts,  so  remote,  and  hitherto 
so  dim,  that  they  had  never  entered  it  before,  and  so 
beautiful  that  they  desired  to  be  there  always. 

As  Ernest  listened  to  the  poet,  he  imagined  that  the 
Great  Stone  Face  was  bending  forward  to  listen  too. 
He  gazed  earnestly  into  the  poet's  glowing  eyes. 

"Who  are  you,  my  strangely  gifted  guest?"  he 
said. 

The  poet  laid  his  finger  on  the  volume  that  Ernest 
had  been  reading. 

"You  have  read  these  poems,"  said  he.  "You 
know  me,  then,  —  for  I  wrote  them." 


50  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

Again,  and  still  more  earnestly  than  before,  Ernest 
examined  the  poet's  features ;  then  turned  towards  the 
Great  Stone  Face;  then  back,  with  an  uncertain  as 
pect,  to  his  guest.  But  his  countenance  fell;  he 
shook  his  head,  and  sighed. 

"  Wherefore  are  you  sad  ?  "  inquired  the  poet. 

"Because,"  replied  Ernest,  "all  through  life  I 
have  awaited  the  fulfilment  of  a  prophecy ;  and,  when 
I  read  these  poems,  I  hoped  that  it  might  be  fulfilled 
in  you." 

"  You  hoped,"  answered  the  poet,  faintly  smiling, 
"  to  find  in  me  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone  Face. 
And  you  are  disappointed,  as  formerly  with  Mr.  Gath- 
ergold,  and  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  and  Old  Stony 
Phiz.  Yes,  Ernest,  it  is  my  doom.  You  must  add 
my  name  to  the  illustrious  three,  and  record  another 
failure  of  your  hopes.  For  —  in  shame  and  sadness 
do  I  speak  it,  Ernest  —  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  typi 
fied  by  yonder  benign  and  majestic  image." 

"  And  why  ?  "  asked  Ernest.  He  pointed  to  the 
volume.  "  Are  not  those  thoughts  divine  ?  " 

"  They  have  a  strain  of  the  Divinity,"  replied  the 
poet.  "  You  can  hear  in  them  the  far-off  echo  of  a 
heavenly  song.  But  my  life,  dear  Ernest,  has  not 
corresponded  with  my  thought.  I  have  had  grand 
dreams,  but  they  have  been  only  dreams,  because  I 
have  lived  —  and  that,  too,  by  my  own  choice  — 
among  poor  and  mean  realities.  Sometimes  even  — 
shall  I  dare  to  say  it  ?  —  I  lack  faith  in  the  grandeur, 
the  beauty,  and  the  goodness,  which  my  own  works 
are  said  to  have  made  more  evident  in  nature  and  in 
human  life.  Why,  then,  pure  seeker  of  the  good  and 
true,  shouldst  thou  hope  to  find  me  in  yonder  image 
of  the  divine  ?  " 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE.        51 

The  poet  spoke  sadly,  and  his  eyes  were  dim  with 
tears.  So,  likewise,  were  those  of  Ernest. 

At  the  hour  of  sunset,  as  had  long  been  his  frequent 
custom,  Ernest  was  to  discourse  to  an  assemblage  of 
the  neighboring  inhabitants  in  the  open  air.  He  and 
the  poet,  arm  in  arm,  still  talking  together  as  they 
went  along,  proceeded  to  the  spot.  It  was  a  small 
nook  among  the  hills,  with  a  gray  precipice  behind, 
the  stern  front  of  which  was  relieved  by  the  pleasant 
foliage  of  many  creeping  plants,  that  made  a  tapestry 
for  the  naked  rock,  by  hanging  their  festoons  from 
all  its  rugged  angles.  At  a  small  elevation  above  the 
ground,  set  in  a  rich  framework  of  verdure,  there 
appeared  a  niche,  spacious  enough  to  admit  a  hu 
man  figure,  with  freedom  for  such  gestures  as  sponta 
neously  accompany  earnest  thought  and  genuine  emo 
tion.  Into  this  natural  pulpit  Ernest  ascended,  and 
threw  a  look  of  familiar  kindness  around  upon  his 
audience.  They  stood,  or  sat,  or  reclined  upon  the 
grass,  as  seemed  good  to  each,  with  the  departing 
sunshine  falling  obliquely  over  them,  and  mingling 
its  subdued  cheerfulness  with  the  solemnity  of  a  grove 
of  ancient  trees,  beneath  and  amid  the  boughs  of 
which  the  golden  rays  were  constrained  to  pass.  In 
another  direction  was  seen  the  Great  Stone  Face,  with 
the  same  cheer,  combined  with  the  same  solemnity,  in 
its  benignant  aspect. 

Ernest  began  to  speak,  giving  to  the  people  of  what 
was  in  his  heart  and  mind.  His  words  hajd  power, 
because  they  accorded  with  his  thoughts ;  and  his 
thoughts  had  reality  and  depth,  because  they  harmo 
nized  with  the  life  which  he  had  always  lived.  It  was 
not  mere  breath  that  this  preacher  uttered  ;  they  were 
the  words  of  life,  because  a  life  of  good  deeds  and 


52  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

holy  love  was  melted  into  them.  Pearls,  pure  and  rich, 
had  been  dissolved  into  this  precious  draught.  The 
poet,  as  he  listened,  felt  that  the  being  and  character 
of  Ernest  were  a  nobler  strain  of  poetry  than  he  had 
ever  written.  His  eyes  glistening  with  tears,  he  gazed 
reverentially  at  the  venerable  man,  and  said  within 
himself  that  never  was  there  an  aspect  so  worthy  of  a 
prophet  and  a  sage  as  that  mild,  sweet,  thoughtful 
countenance,  with  the  glory  of  white  hair  diffused 
about  it.  At  a  distance,  but  distinctly  to  be  seen, 
high  up  in  the  golden  light  of  the  setting  sun,  ap 
peared  the  Great  Stone  Face,  with  hoary  mists  around 
it,  like  the  white  hairs  around  the  brow  of  Ernest. 
Its  look  of  grand  beneficence  seemed  to  embrace  the 
world. 

At  that  moment,  in  sympathy  with  a  thought  which 
he  was  about  to  utter,  the  face  of  Ernest  assumed  a 
grandeur  of  expression,  so  imbued  with  benevolence, 
that  the  poet,1  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  threw  his 
arms  aloft,  and  shouted,  — 

"Behold!  Behold!  Ernest  is  himself  the  like 
ness  of  the  Great  Stone  Face  !  " 

Then  all  the  people  looked  and  saw  that  what  the 
deep-sighted  poet  said  was  true.  The  prophecy  was 
fulfilled.  But  Ernest,  having  finished  what  he  had 
to  say,  took  the  poet's  arm,  and  walked  slowly  home 
ward,  still  hoping  that  some  wiser  and  better  man 
than  himself  would  by  and  by  appear,  bearing  a  re 
semblance  to  the  GREAT  STONE  FACE. 

1  That  the  poet  should  have  been  the  one  to  discover  the  re 
semblance  accords  with  the  conception  of  the  poet  himself  in 
this  little  apologue.  Poetic  insight  is  still  separable  from  integ 
rity  of  character,  and  it  was  quite  possible  for  this  poet  to  see 
the  ideal  beauty  in  another,  while  conscious  of  his  own  defect. 
The  humility  of  Ernest,  as  the  last  word  of  the  story,  completes 
the  certainty  of  the  likeness. 


BROWNE'S   WOODEN  IMAGE.  53 

III. 
BROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE. 

[In  his  preface  to  The  Marble  Faun  Hawthorne  speaks 
of  the  difficulty  of  reproducing  American  life  in  romance, 
but  in  the  story  of  Drowne's  Wooden  Image  he  has  within 
narrow  limits  achieved  a  more  difficult  task,  that  of  transla 
ting  a  Greek  myth  into  the  Yankee  vernacular,  without  im 
pairing  the  native  flavor.  In  the  course  of  the  story  he 
laughingly  refers  to  the  myth  of  Pygmalion,  the  statuary  of 
Cyprus,  who  shunned  the  society  of  women,  but  became 
so  enamored  of  one  of  his  own  beautiful  creations  that  he 
besought  Venus  to  give  her  life.  The  same  theme,  with  a 
wider  and  more  subtle  application,  reappears  in  this  little 
story,  and  it  is  interesting  to  see  how  Hawthorne  has  avoided 
the  merely  grotesque,  and  by  the  sincerity  of  the  carver  has 
given  dignity  to  the  illusion.  The  personages  of  the  story 
appear  in  history.  There  was  a  Drowne,  who  was  a  carver, 
and  whose  work,  as  Hawthorne  reminds  us,  was  to  be  seen 
in  Boston.  He  is  known  as  Deacon  Shem  Drowne,  and 
died  in  1774.  From  several  allusions  in  the  story,  the 
time  may  be  made  to  be  in  King  George  II.'s  reign,  say 
about  1760.  The  poet,  William  Morris,  has  told  the  story 
of  Pygmalion  and  the  Image  in  The  Earthly  Paradise."} 

ONE  sunshiny  morning,  in  the  good  old  times  of  the 
town  of  Boston,  a  young  carver  in  wood,  well  known 
by  the  name  of  Drowne,  stood  contemplating  a  large 
oaken  log,  which  it  was  his  purpose  to  convert  into 
the  figure-head  of  a  vessel.  And  while  he  discussed 
within  his  own  mind  what  sort  of  shape  or  similitude 
it  were  well  to  bestow  upon  this  excellent  piece  of 
timber,  there  came  into  Drowne's  workshop  a  certain 
Captain  Hunnewell,  owner  and  commander  of  the 


54  NA  THANIEL  HA  WTHORNE. 

good  brig  called  the  Cynosure,  which  had  just  returned 
from  her  first  voyage  to  Fayal. 

"  Ah !  that  will  do,  Drowne,  that  will  do !  "  cried 
the  jolly  captain,  tapping  the  log  with  his  rattan.  "  I 
bespeak  this  very  piece  of  oak  for  the  figure-head  of 
the  Cynosure.  She  has  shown  herself  the  sweetest 
craft  that  ever  floated,  and  I  mean  to  decorate  her 
prow  with  the  handsomest  image  that  the  skill  of  man 
can  cut  out  of  timber.  And,  Drowne,  you  are  the  fel 
low  to  execute  it." 

"  You  give  me  more  credit  than  I  deserve,  Captain 
Hun  ne well,"  said  the  carver,  modestly,  yet  as  one  con 
scious  of  eminence  in  his  art.  "  But,  for  the  sake  of 
the  good  brig,  I  stand  ready  to  do  my  best.  And 
which  of  these  designs  do  you  prefer  ?  Here,"  — 
pointing  to  a  staring,  half-length  figure,  in  a  white 
wig  and  scarlet  coat,  —  "  here  is  an  excellent  model, 
the  likeness  of  our  gracious  king.  Here  is  the  valiant 
Admiral  Vernon.1  Or,  if  you  prefer  a  female  figure, 
what  say  you  to  Britannia  with  the  trident  ?  " 

"  All  very  fine,  Drowne ;  all  very  fine,"  answered 
the  mariner.  "  But  as  nothing  like  the  brig  ever 
swam  the  ocean,  so  I  am  determined  she  shall  have 
such  a  figure-head  as  old  Neptune  never  saw  in  his 
life.  And  what  is  more,  as  there  is  a  secret  in  the 
matter,  you  must  pledge  your  credit  not  to  betray  it." 

"Certainly,"   said    Drowne,   marvelling,   however, 

1  Edward  Vernon,  1684-1757,  was  a  distinguished  English 
admiral.  He  saw  a  good  deal  of  service  in  the  West  Indies,  and 
in  1739  took  the  town  of  Porto  Bello  ;  and  as  the  affair  made 
much  noise  and  there  was  a  brisk  trade  between  Boston  and  the 
West  Indies,  we  may  guess  that  Drowne  found  Admiral  Vernon 
a  popular  model  for  figure-heads.  There  was  a  tavern  called 
the  Admiral  Vernon  on  the  lower  corner  of  State  Street  and 
Merchants'  Row,  Boston. 


DROWNE'S   WOODEN  IMAGE.  55 

what  possible  mystery  there  could  be  in  reference  to 
an  affair  so  open,  of  necessity,  to  the  inspection  of  all 
the  world  as  the  figure-head  of  a  vessel.  "  You  may 
depend,  Captain,  on  my  being  as  secret  as  the  nature 
of  the  case  will  permit." 

Captain  Hunnewell  then  took  Drowne  by  the  but 
ton,  and  communicated  his  wishes  in  so  low  a  tone 
that  it  would  be  unmannerly  to  repeat  what  was  evi 
dently  intended  for  the  carver's  private  ear.  We 
shall,  therefore,  take  the  opportunity  to  give  the  reader 
a  few  desirable  particulars  about  Drowne  himself. 

He  was  the  first  American  who  is  known  to  have 
attempted  —  in  a  very  humble  line,  it  is  true  —  that 
art  in  which  we  can  now  reckon  so  many  names  al 
ready  distinguished,  or  rising  to  distinction.  From 
his  earliest  boyhood  he  had  exhibited  a  knack,  —  for 
it  would  be  too  proud  a  word  to  call  it  genius,  —  a 
knack,  therefore,  for  the  imitation  of  the  human  figure 
in  whatever  material  came  most  readily  to  hand.  The 
snows  of  a  New  England  winter  had  often  supplied 
him  with  a  species  of  marble  as  dazzlingly  white,  at 
least,  as  the  Parian  or  the  Carrara,  and  if  less  durable, 
yet  sufficiently  so  to  correspond  with  any  claims  to 
permanent  existence  possessed  by  the  boy's  frozen 
statues.  Yet  they  won  admiration  from  maturer 
judges  than  his  school-fellows,  and  were,  indeed,  re 
markably  clever,  though  destitute  of  the  native  warmth 
that  might  have  made  the  snow  melt  beneath  his  hand. 
As  he  advanced  in  life,  the  young  man  adopted  pine 
and  oak  as  eligible  materials  for  the  display  of  his 
skill,  which  now  began  to  bring  him  a  return  of  solid 
silver  as  well  as  the  empty  praise  tjhat  had  been  an 
apt  reward  enough  for  his  productions  of  evanescent 
snow.  He  became  noted  for  carving  ornamental 


56  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

pump-heads,  and  wooden  urns  for  gate-posts,  and  dec 
orations,  more  grotesque  than  fanciful,  for  mantel 
pieces.  No  apothecary  would  have  deemed  himself 
in  the  way  of  obtaining  custom,  without  setting  up  a 
gilded  rno'rtar,  if  not  a  head  of  Galen  or  Hippocrates, 
from  the  skilful  hand  of  Drowne. 

But  the  great  scope  of  his  business  lay  in  the  man= 
ufacture  of  figure-heads  for  vessels.  Whether  it  were 
the  monarch  himself,  or  some  famous  British  admiral 
or  general,  or  the  governor  of  the  province,  or  per 
chance  the  favorite  daughter  of  the  ship  owner,  there 
the  image  stood  above  the  prow,  decked  out  in  gor 
geous  colors,  magnificently  gilded,  and  staring  the 
whole  world  out  of  countenance,  as  if  from  an  innate 
consciousness  of  its  own  superiority.  These  speci 
mens  of  native  sculpture  had  crossed  the  sea  in  all  di 
rections,  and  been  not  ignobly  noticed  among  the 
crowded  shipping  of  the  Thames,  and  wherever  else 
the  hardy  mariners  of  New  England  had  pushed  their 
adventures.  It  must  be  confessed  that  a  family  like 
ness  pervaded  these  respectable  progeny  of  Drowne's 
skill ;  that  the  benign  countenance  of  the  king  resem 
bled  those  of  his  subjects,  and  that  Miss  Peggy  Ho- 
bart,  the  merchant's  daughter,  bore  a  remarkable  sim 
ilitude  to  Britannia,  Victory,  and  other  ladies  of  the 
allegoric  sisterhood ;  and,  finally,  that  they  all  had  a 
kind  of  wooden  aspect,  which  proved  an  intimate  rela 
tionship  with  the  unshaped  blocks  of  timber  in  the 
carver's  workshop.  But  at  least  there  was  no  incon 
siderable  skill  of  hand,  nor  a  deficiency  of  any  attribute 
to  render  them  really  works  of  art,  except  that  deep 
quality,  be  it  of  soul  or  intellect,  which  bestows  life 
upon  the  lifeless  and  warmth  upon  the  cold,  and 
which,  had  it  been  present,  would  have  made  Drowne's 
wooden  image  instinct  with  spirit. 


DROWNE'S   WOODEN  IMAGE.  57 

The  captain  of  the  Cynosure  had  now  finished  his 
instructions. 

"  And,  Drowne,"  said  he,  impressively,  "  you  must 
lay  aside  all  other  business  and  set  about  this  forth 
with.  And  as  to  the  price,  only  do  the  job  in  first- 
rate  style,  and  you  shall  settle  that  point  yourself." 

"Very  well,  Captain,"  answered  the  carver,  who 
looked  grave  and  somewhat  perplexed,  yet  had  a  sort 
of  smile  upon  his  visage  ;  "  depend  upon  it,  I  '11  do  my 
utmost  to  satisfy  you." 

From  that  moment  the  men  of  taste  about  Long 
"Wharf  and  the  Town  Dock  who  were  wont  to  show 
their  love  for  the  arts  by  frequent  visits  to  Drowne's 
workshop,  and  admiration  of  his  wooden  images,  be 
gan  to  be  sensible  of  a  mystery  in  the  carver's  con 
duct.  Often  he  was  absent  in  the  daytime.  Some 
times,  as  might  be  judged  by  gleams  of  light  from  the 
shop-windows,  he  was  at  work  until  a  late  hour  of  the 
evening ;  although  neither  knock  nor  voice,  on  such 
occasions,  could  gain  admittance  for  a  visitor,  or  elicit 
any  word  of  response.  Nothing  remarkable,  however, 
was  observed  in  the  shop  at  those  hours  when  it  was 
thrown  open.  A  fine  piece  of  timber,  indeed,  which 
Drowne  was  known  to  have  reserved  for  some  work  of 
especial  dignity,  was  seen  to  be  gradually  assuming 
shape.  What  shape  it  was  destined  ultimately  to 
take  was  a  problem  to  his  friends  and  a  point  on 
which  the  carver  himself  preserved  a  rigid  silence. 
But  day  after  day,  though  Drowne  was  seldom  noticed 
in  the  act  of  working  upon  it,  this  rude  form  began  to 
be  developed  until  it  became  evident  to  all  observers 
that  a  female  figure  was  growing  into  mimic  life.  At 
each  new  visit  they  beheld  a  larger  pile  of  wooden 
chips  and  a  nearer  approximation  to  something  beau- 


58  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

tiful.  It  seemed  as  if  the  hamadryad  of  the  oak  had 
sheltered  herself  from  the  unimaginative  world  within 
the  heart  of  her  native  tree ;  and  that  it  was  only 
necessary  to  remove  the  strange  shapelessness  that 
had  incrusted  her,  and  reveal  the  grace  and  loveliness 
of  a  divinity.  Imperfect  as  the  design,  the  attitude, 
the  costume,  and  especially  the  face  of  the  image  still 
remained,  there  was  already  an  effect  that  drew  the 
eye  from  the  wooden  cleverness  of  Drowne's  earlier 
productions  and  fixed  it  upon  the  tantalizing  mystery 
of  this  new  project. 

Copley,1  the  celebrated  painter,  then  a  young  man 
and  a  resident  of  Boston,  came  one  day  to  visit 
Drowne ;  for  he  had  recognized  so  much  of  moderate 
ability  in  the  carver  as  to  induce  him,  in  the  dearth  of 
professional  sympathy,  to  cultivate  his  acquaintance. 
On  entering  the  shop  the  artist  glanced  at  the  inflex 
ible  image  of  king,  commander,  dame,  and  allegory 
that  stood  around,  on  the  best  of  which  might  have 
been  bestowed  the  questionable  praise  that  it  looked 
as  if  a  living  man  had  here  been  changed  to  wood,  and 
that  not  only  the  physical,  but  the  intellectual  and 
spiritual  part,  partook  of  the  stolid  transformation. 
But  in  not  a  single  instance  did  it  seem  as  if  the 
wood  were  imbibing  f;he  ethereal  essence  of  humanity. 
What  a  wide  distinction  is  here !  and  how  far  would 
the  slightest  portion  of  the  latter  merit  have  outvalued 
the  utmost  degree  of  the  former ! 

"  My  friend  Drowne,"  said  Copley,  smiling  to  him 
self,  but  alluding  to  the  mechanical  and  wooden  clev 
erness  that  so  invariably  distinguished  the  images, 
"  you  are  really  a  remarkable  person !  I  have  seldom 
met  with  a  man  in  your  line  of  business  that  could  do 
1  John  Singleton  Copley  was  born  in  Boston  in  1737. 


BROWNE'S    WOODEN  IMAGE.  59 

so  much ;  for  one  other  touch  might  make  this  figure 
of  General  Wolfe,1  for  instance,  a  breathing  and  intel 
ligent  human  creature." 

"  You  would  have  me  think  that  you  are  praising 
me  highly,  Mr.  Copley,"  answered  Drowne,  turning 
his  back  upon  Wolfe's  image  in  apparent  disgust. 
"  But  there  has  come  a  light  into  my  mind.  I  know, 
what  you  know  as  well,  that  the  one  touch  which  you 
speak  of  as  deficient  is  the  only  one  that  would  be 
truly  valuable,  and  that  without  it  these  works  of 
mine  are  no  better  than  worthless  abortions.  There 
is  the  same  difference  between  them  and  the  works  of 
an  inspired  artist  as  between  a  sign-post  daub  and  one 
of  your  best  pictures." 

"  This  is  strange,"  cried  Copley,  looking  him  in  the 
face,  which  now,  as  the  painter  fancied,  had  a  singular 
depth  of  intelligence,  though  hitherto  it  had  not  given 
him  greatly  the  advantage  over  his  own  family  of 
wooden  images.  "  What  has  come  over  you  ?  How 
is  it  that,  possessing  the  idea  which  you  have  now 
uttered,  you  should  produce  only  such  works  as 
these?" 

The  carver  smiled,  but  made  no  reply.  Copley 
turned  again  to  the  images,  conceiving  that  the  sense 
of  deficiency  which  Drowne  had  just  expressed,  and 
which  is  so  rare  in  a  merely  mechanical  character, 
must  surely  imply  a  genius,  the  tokens  of  which  had 
heretofore  been  overlooked.  But  no ;  there  was  not  a 
trace  of  it.  He  was  about  to  withdraw  when  his  eyes 
chanced  to  fall  upon  a  half-developed  figure  which  lay 
in  a  corner  of  the  workshop,  surrounded  by  scattered 
chips  of  oak.  It  arrested  him  at  once. 

1  General  Wolfe,  the  hero  of  Quebec,  was  killed  on  the  Plains 
of  Abraham,  September  13,  1759. 


60  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

"  What  is  here  ?  Who  has  done  this  ?  "  he  broke 
out,  after  contemplating  it  in  speechless  astonishment 
for  an  instant.  "  Here  is  the  divine,  the  life-giving 
touch.  What  inspired  hand  is  beckoning  this  wood 
to  arise  and  live  ?  Whose  work  is  this  ?  " 

"  No  man's  work,"  replied  Drowne.  "  The  figure 
lies  within  that  block  of  oak,  and  it  is  my  business  to 
find  it." 

"  Drowne,"  said  the  true  artist,  grasping  the  carver 
fervently  by  the  hand,  "  you  are  a  man  of  genius !  " 

As  Copley  departed,  happening  to  glance  backward 
from  the  threshold,  he  beheld  Drowne  bending  over 
the  half-created  shape,  and  stretching  forth  his  arms 
as  if  he  would  have  embraced  and  drawn  it  to  his 
heart;  while,  had  such  a  miracle  been  possible,  his 
countenance  expressed  passion  enough  to  communicate 
warmth  and  sensibility  to  the  lifeless  oak. 

"  Strange  enough ! "  said  the  artist  to  himself. 
"  Who  would  have  looked  for  a  modern  Pygmalion  in 
the  person  of  a  Yankee  mechanic  !  " 

As  yet,  the  image  was  but  vague  in  its  outward  pre 
sentment  ;  so  that,  as  in  the  cloud  shapes  around  the 
western  sun,  the  observer  rather  felt  or  was  led  to 
imagine,  than  really  saw  what  was  intended  by  it. 
Day  by  day,  however,  the  work  assumed  greater  pre 
cision,  and  settled  its  irregular  and  misty  outline  into 
distincter  grace  and  beauty.  The  general  design  was 
now  obvious  to  the  common  eye.  It  was  a  female  fig 
ure,  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  foreign  dress ;  the  gown 
being  laced  over  the  bosom,  and  opening  in  front  so  as 
to  disclose  a  skirt  or  petticoat,  the  folds  and  inequali 
ties  of  which  were  admirably  represented  in  the  oaken 
substance.  She  wore  a  hat  of  singular  gracefulness, 
and  abundantly  laden  with  flowers,  such  as  never  grew 


DROWNE'S    WOODEN  IMAGE.  61 

in  the  rude  soil  of  New  England,  but  which,  with  all 
their  fanciful  luxuriance,  had  a  natural  truth  that  it 
seemed  impossible  for  the  most  fertile  imagination  to 
have  attained  without  copying  from  real  prototypes. 
There  were  several  little  appendages  to  this  dress,  such 
as  a  fan,  a  pair  of  earrings,  a  chain  about  the  neck,  a 
watch  in  the  bosom,  and  a  ring  upon  the  finger,  all  of 
which  would  have  been  deemed  beneath  the  dignity  of 
sculpture.  They  were  put  on,  however,  with  as  much 
taste  as  a  lovely  woman  might  have  shown  in  her 
attire,  and  could  therefore  have  shocked  none  but  a 
judgment  spoiled  by  artistic  rules. 

1  he  face  was  still  imperfect ;  but  gradually,  by  a 
magic  touch,  intelligence  and  sensibility  brightened 
through  the  features,  with  all  the  effect  of  light  gleam 
ing  forth  from  within  the  solid  oak.  The  face  became 
alive.  It  was  a  beautiful,  though  not  precisely  reg 
ular,  and  somewhat  haughty  aspect,  but  with  a  certain 
piquancy  about  the  eyes  and  mouth,  which,  of  all  ex 
pressions,  would  have  seemed  the  most  impossible  to 
throw  over  a  wooden  countenance.  And  now,  so  far 
as  carving  went,  this  wonderful  production  was  com 
plete. 

"  Drowne,"  said  Copley,  who  had  hardly  missed  a 
single  day  in  his  visits  to  the  carver's  workshop,  "  if 
this  work  were  in  marble  it  would  make  you  famous  at 
once ;  nay,  I  would  almost  affirm  that  it  would  make 
an  era  in  the  art.  It  is  as  ideal  as  an  antique  statue, 
and  yet  as  real  as  any  lovely  woman  whom  one  meets 
at  a  fireside  or  in  the  street.  But  I  trust  you  do  not 
mean  to  desecrate  this  exquisite  creature  with  paint, 
like  those  staring  kings  and  admirals  yonder?  " 

"  Not  paint  her !  "  exclaimed  Captain  Hunnewell, 
who  stood  by;  "not  paint  the  figure-head  of  the 


62  NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 

Cynosure !  And  what  sort  of  a  figure  should  I  cut 
in  a  foreign  port  with  such  an  unpainted  oaken  stick 
as  this  over  my  prow !  She  must,  and  she  shall,  be 
painted  to  the  life,  from  the  topmost  flower  in  her  hat 
down  to  the  silver  spangles  on  her  slippers." 

"  Mr.  Copley,"  said  Drowne,  quietly,  "  I  know  no 
thing  of  marble  statuary,  and  nothing  of  the  sculptor's 
rules  of  art ;  but  of  this  wooden  image,  this  work  of 
my  hands,  this  creature  of  my  heart,"  —  and  here  his 
voice  faltered  and  choked  in  a  very  singular  manner, 
—  "  of  this  —  of  her  —  I  may  say  that  I  know  some 
thing.  A  wellspring  of  inward  wisdom  gushed  within 
me  as  I  wrought  upon  the  oak  with  my  whole  strength, 
and  soul,  and  faith.  Let  others  do  what  they  may 
with  marble,  and  adopt  what  rules  they  choose.  If  I 
can  produce  my  desired  effect  by  painted  wood,  those 
rules  are  not  for  me,  and  I  have  a  right  to  disregard 
them." 

"  The  very  spirit  of  genius,"  muttered  Copley  to 
himself.  "  How  otherwise  should  this  carver  feel  him 
self  entitled  to  transcend  all  rules,  and  make  me 
ashamed  of  quoting  them  ?  " 

He  looked  earnestly  at  Drowne,  and  again  saw  that 
expression  of  human  love  which,  in  a  spiritual  sense, 
as  the  artist  could  not  help  imagining,  was  the  secret 
of  the  life  that  had  been  breathed  into  this  block  of 
wood. 

The  carver,  still  in  the  same  secrecy  that  marked  all 
his  operations  upon  this  mysterious  image,  proceeded 
to  paint  the  habiliments  in  their  proper  colors,  and 
the  countenance  with  nature's  red  and  white.  When 
all  was  finished  he  threw  open  his  workshop,  and 
admitted  the  towns-people  to  behold  what  he  had  done. 
Most  persons,  at  their  first  entrance,  felt  impelled  to 


DROWNE'S    WOODEN  IMAGE.  63 

remove  their  hats,  and  pay  such  reverence  as  was  due 
to  the  richly  dressed  and  beautiful  young  lady  who 
seemed  to  stand  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  with  oaken 
chips  and  shavings  scattered  at  her  feet.  Then  came 
a  sensation  of  fear ;  as  if,  not  being  actually  human, 
yet  so  like  humanity,  she  must  therefore  be  something 
preternatural.  There  was,  in  truth,  an  indefinable 
air  and  expression  that  might  reasonably  induce  the 
query,  Who  and  from  what  sphere  this  daughter  of 
the  oak  should  be  ?  The  strange,  rich  flowers  of  Eden 
on  her  head ;  the  complexion,  so  much  deeper  and 
more  brilliant  than  those  of  our  native  beauties ;  the 
foreign,  as  it  seemed,  and  fantastic  garb,  yet  not  too 
fantastic  to  be  worn  decorously  in  the  street ;  the  del 
icately  wrought  embroidery  of  the  skirt ;  the  broad 
gold  chain  about  her  neck ;  the  curious  ring  upon  her 
finger ;  the  fan,  so  exquisitely  sculptured  in  open 
work,  and  painted  to  resemble  pearl  and  ebony ;  where 
could  Drowne,  in  his  sober  walk  of  life,  have  beheld 
the  vision  here  so  matchlessly  embodied  !  And  then 
her  face !  In  the  dark  eyes  and  around  the  voluptuous 
mouth  there  played  a  look  made  up  of  pride,  coquetry, 
and  a  gleam  of  mirthfulness,  which  impressed  Copley 
with  the  idea  that  the  image  was  secretly  enjoying  the 
perplexing  admiration  of  himself  and  other  beholders. 

"  And  will  you,"  said  he  to  the  carver,  "  permit  this 
masterpiece  to  become  the  figure-head  of  a  vessel? 
Give  the  honest  captain  yonder  figure  of  Britannia,  — 
it  will  answer  his  purpose  far  better,  —  and  send  this 
fairy  queen  to  England,  where,  for  aught  I  know,  it 
may  bring  you  a  thousand  pounds." 

"  I  have  not  wrought  it  for  money,"  said  Drowne. 

"  What  sort  of  a  fellow  is  this !  "  thought  Copley. 
"  A  Yankee,  and  throw  away  the  chance  of  making 


64  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

his  fortune !  He  has  gone  mad ;  and  thence  has 
come  this  gleam  of  genius." 

There  was  still  further  proof  of  Drowne's  lunacy, 
if  credit  were  due  to  the  rumor  that  he  had  been  seen 
kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the  oaken  lady,  and  gazing 
with  a  lover's  passionate  ardor  into  the  face  that  his 
own  hands  had  created.  The  bigots  of  the  day  hinted 
that  it  would  be  no  matter  of  surprise  if  an  evil  spirit 
were  allowed  to  enter  this  beautiful  form  and  seduce 
the  carver  to  destruction. 

The  fame  of  the  image  spread  far  and  wide.  The 
inhabitants  visited  it  so  universally  that  after  a  few 
days  of  exhibition  there  was  hardly  an  old  man  or  a 
child  who  had  not  become  minutely  familiar  with  its 
aspect.  Even  had  the  story  of  Drowne's  wooden  image 
ended  here,  its  celebrity  might  have  been  prolonged 
for  many  years  by  the  reminiscences  of  those  who 
looked  upon  it  in  their  childhood,  and  saw  nothing 
else  so  beautiful  in  after  life.  But  the  town  was  now 
astounded  by  an  event  the  narrative  of  which  has 
formed  itself  into  one  of  the  most  singular  legends 
that  are  yet  to  be  met  with  in  the  traditionary  chim 
ney-corners  of  the  New  England  metropolis,  where  old 
men  and  women  sit  dreaming  of  the  past,  and  wag 
their  heads  at  the  dreamers  of  the  present  and  the 
future. 

One  fine  morning,  just  before  the  departure  of  the 
Cynosure  on  her  second  voyage  to  Fayal,  the  com 
mander  of  that  gallant  vessel  was  seen  to  issue  from 
his  residence  in  Hanover  Street.  He  was  stylishly 
dressed  in  a  blue  broadcloth  coat,  with  gold-lace  at 
the  seams  and  button-holes,  an  embroidered  scarlet 
waistcoat,  a  triangular  hat,  with  a  loop  and  broad 
binding  of  gold,  and  wore  a  silver-hilted  hanger  at 


DROWNE'S   WOODEN  IMAGE.  65 

his  side.  But  the  good  captain  might  have  been 
arrayed  in  the  robes  of  a  prince  or  the  rags  of  a  beg 
gar,  without  in  either  case  attracting  notice,  while 
obscured  by  such  a  companion  as  now  leaned  on  his 
arm.  The  people  in  the  street  started,  rubbed  their 
eyes,  and  either  leaped  aside  from  their  path,  or  stood 
as  if  transfixed  to  wood  or  marble  in  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  see  it  ?  —  do  you  see  it  ?  "  cried  one,  with 
tremulous  eagerness.  "  It  is  the  very  same  !  " 

"  The  same  ?  "  answered  another,  who  had  arrived 
in  town  only  the  night  before.  "  Who  do  you  mean  ? 
I  see  only  a  sea-captain  in  his  shore-going  clothes,  and 
a  young  lady  in  a  foreign  habit,  with  a  bunch  of  beau 
tiful  flowers  in  her  hat.  On  my  word,  she  is  as  fair 
and  bright  a  damsel  as  my  eyes  have  looked  on  this 
many  a  day  !  " 

"  Yes ;  the  same !  —  the  very  same  !  "  repeated  the 
other.  "  Drowne's  wooden  image  has  come  to  life  !  " 

Here  was  a  miracle  indeed !  Yet,  illuminated  by 
the  sunshine,  or  darkened  by  the  alternate  shade  of 
the  houses,  and  with  its  garments  fluttering  lightly  in 
the  morning  breeze,  there  passed  the  image  along  the 
street.  It  was  exactly  and  minutely  the  shape,  the 
garb,  and  the  face  which  the  towns-people  had  so 
recently  thronged  to  see  and  admire.  Not  a  rich 
flower  upon  her  head,  not  a  single  leaf  but  had  had 
its  prototype  in  Drowne's  wooden  workmanship,  al 
though  now  their  fragile  grace  had  become  flexible, 
and  was  shaken  by  every  footstep  that  the  wearer 
made.  The  broad  gold  chain  upon  the  neck  was  iden 
tical  with  the  one  represented  on  the  image,  and  glis 
tened  with  the  motion  imparted  by  the  rise  and  fall 
of  the  bosom  which  it  decorated.  A  real  diamond 
sparkled  on  her  finger.  In  her  right  hand  she  bore  a 


66  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

pearl  and  ebony  fan,  which  she  flourished  with  a  fan 
tastic  and  bewitching  coquetry  that  was  likewise  ex 
pressed  in  all  her  movements  as  well  as  in  the  style  of 
her  beauty  and  the  attire  that  so  well  harmonized  with 
it.  The  face,  with  its  brilliant  depth  of  complexion, 
had  the  same  piquancy  of  mirthful  mischief  that  was 
fixed  upon  the  countenance  of  the  image,  but  which 
was  here  varied  and  continually  shifting,  yet  always 
essentially  the  same,  like  the  sunny  gleam  upon  a  bub 
bling  fountain.  On  the  whole,  there  was  something 
so  airy  and  yet  so  real  in  the  figure,  and  withal  so 
perfectly  did  it  represent  Drowne's  image,  that  peo 
ple  knew  not  whether  to  suppose  the  magic  wood 
etherealized  into  a  spirit  or  warmed  and  softened  into 
an  actual  woman. 

"  One  thing  is  certain,"  muttered  a  Puritan  of  the 
old  stamp,  "  Drowne  has  sold  himself  to  the  Devil ; 
and  doubtless  this  gay  Captain  Hunnewell  is  a  party 
to  the  bargain." 

"And  I,"  said  a  young  man  who  overheard  him, 
"  would  almost  consent  to  be  the  third  victim,  for  the 
liberty  of  saluting  those  lovely  lips." 

"  And  so  would  I,"  said  Copley,  the  painter,  "  for 
the  privilege  of  taking  her  picture." 

The  image,  or  the  apparition,  whichever  it  might 
be,  still  escorted  by  the  bold  captain,  proceeded  from 
Hanover  Street  through  some  of  the  cross  lanes  that 
make  this  portion  of  the  town  so  intricate,  to  Ann 
Street,  thence  into  Dock  Square,  and  so  downward  to 
Drowne's  shop,  which  stood  just  on  the  water's  edge. 
The  crowd  still  followed,  gathering  volumes  as  it  rolled 
along.  Never  had  a  modern  miracle  occurred  in  such 
broad  daylight,  nor  in  the  presence  of  such  a  multi 
tude  of  witnesses.  The  airy  image,  as  if  conscious 


DROWNE'S    WOODEN  IMAGE.  67 

that  she  was  the  object  of  the  murmurs  and  disturb 
ance  that  swelled  behind  her,  appeared  slightly  vexed 
and  flustered,  yet  still  in  a  manner  consistent  with  the 
light  vivacity  and  sportive  mischief  that  were  written 
in  her  countenance.  She  was  observed  to  flutter  her 
fan  with  such  vehement  rapidity  that  the  elaborate 
delicacy  of  its  workmanship  gave  way,  and  it  remained 
broken  in  her  hand. 

Arriving  at  Drowne's  door,  while  the  captain  threw 
it  open,  the  marvellous  apparition  paused  an  instant 
on  the  threshold,  assuming  the  very  attitude  of  the 
image,  and  casting  over  the  crowd  that  glance  of 
sunny  coquetry  which  all  remembered  on  the  face  of  the 
oaken  lady.  She  and  her  cavalier  then  disappeared. 

"  Ah ! "  murmured  the  crowd,  drawing  a  deep 
breath,  as  with  one  vast  pair  of  lungs. 

"The  world  looks  darker  now  that  she  has  van 
ished,"  said  some  of  the  young  men. 

But  the  aged,  whose  recollections  dated  as  far  back 
as  witch  times,  shook  their  heads,  and  hinted  that  our 
forefathers  would  have  thought  it  a  pious  deed  to  burn 
the  daughter  of  the  oak  with  fire. 

"  If  she  be  other  than  a  bubble  of  the  elements," 
exclaimed  Copley,  "  I  must  look  upon  her  face  again." 

He  accordingly  entered  the  shop  ;  and  there,  in  her 
usual  corner,  stood  the  image,  gazing  at  him,  as  it 
might  seem,  with  the  very  same  expression  of  mirth 
ful  mischief  that  had  been  the  farewell  look  of  the 
apparition  when,  but  a  moment  before,  she  turned  her 
face  towards  the  crowd.  The  carver  stood  beside  his 
creation,  mending  the  beautiful  fan,  which  by  some 
accident  was  broken  in  her  hand.  *  But  there  was  no 

1 A  slight  touch  to  keep  iii  sight  the  mysterious  affinity  of  lady 
and  image. 


68  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

longer  any  motion  in  the  lifelike  image,  nor  any  real 
woman  in  the  workshop,  nor  even  the  witchcraft  of  a 
sunny  shadow,  that  might  have  deluded  people's  eyes 
as  it  flitted  along  the  street.  Captain  Hunnewell,  too, 
had  vanished.  His  hoarse,  sea-breezy  tones,  however, 
were  audible  on  the  other  side  of  a  door  that  opened 
upon  the  water. 

"  Sit  down  in  the  stern  sheets,  my  lady,"  said  the 
gallant  captain.  "  Come,  bear  a  hand,  you  lubbers, 
and  set  us  on  board  in  the  turning  of  a  minute-glass." 

And  then  was  heard  the  stroke  of  oars. 

"Drowne,"  said  Copley,  with  a  smile  of  intelli 
gence,  "  you  have  been  a  truly  fortunate  man.  What 
painter  or  statuary  ever  had  such  a  subject !  No 
wonder  that  she  inspired  a  genius  into  you,  and  first 
created  the  artist  who  afterwards  created  her  image." 

Drowne  looked  at  him  with  a  visage  that  bore  the 
traces  of  tears,  but  from  which  the  light  of  imagina 
tion  and  sensibility,  so  recently  illuminating  it,  had 
departed.  He  was  again  the  mechanical  carver  that 
he  had  been  known  to  be  all  his  lifetime. 

"  I  hardly  understand  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Copley," 
said  he,  putting  his  hand  to  his  brow.  "  This  image  ! 
Can  it  have  been  my  work  ?  Well,  I  have  wrought  it 
in  a  kind  of  dream  ;  and  now  that  I  am  broad  awake 
I  must  set  about  finishing  yonder  figure  of  Admiral 
Vernon." 

And  forthwith  he  employed  himself  on  the  stolid 
countenance  of  one  of  his  wooden  progeny,  and  com 
pleted  it  in  his  own  mechanical  style,  from  which  he 
was  never  known  afterwards  to  deviate.  He  followed 
his  business  industriously  for  many  years,  acquired  a 
competence,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  attained 
to  a  dignified  station  in  the  church,  being  remembered 


DROWNE' S    WOODEN  IMAGE.  69 

in  records  and  traditions  as  Deacon  Drowne,  the 
carver.  One  of  his  productions,  an  Indian  chief, 
gilded  all  over,  stood  during  the  better  part  of  a  cen 
tury  on  the  cupola  of  the  Province  House,  bedazzling 
the  eyes  of  those  who  looked  upward,  like  an  angel  of 
the  sun.  Another  work  of  the  good  deacon's  hand  — 
a  reduced  likeness  of  his  friend  Captain  Hunnewell, 
holding  a  telescope  and  quadrant  —  may  be  seen  to 
this  day,  at  the  corner  of  Broad  and  State  Streets, 
serving  in  the  useful  capacity  of  sign  to  the  shop  of  a 
nautical  instrument  maker.  We  know  not  how  to  ac 
count  for  the  inferiority  of  this  quaint  old  figure  as 
compared  with  the  recorded  excellence  of  the  Oaken 
Lady,  unless  on  the  supposition  that  in  every  human 
spirit  there  is  imagination,  sensibility,  creative  power, 
genius,  which,  according  to  circumstances,  may  either 
be  developed  in  this  world,  or  shrouded  in  a  mask  of 
dulness  until  another  state  of  being.  To  our  friend 
Drowne  there  came  a  brief  season  of  excitement,  kin 
dled  by  love.  It  rendered  him  a  genius  for  that  one 
occasion,  but,  quenched  in  disappointment,  left  him 
again  the  mechanical  carver  in  wood,  without  the  power 
even  of  appreciating  the  work  that  his  own  hands  had 
wrought.  Yet,  who  can  doubt  that  the  very  highest 
state  to  which  a  human  spirit  can  attain,  in  its  loftiest 
aspirations,  is  its  truest  and  most  natural  state,  and 
that  Drowne  was  more  consistent  with  himself  when 
he  wrought  the  admirable  figure  of  the  mysterious 
lady,  than  when  he  perpetrated  a  whole  progeny  of 
blockheads  ? 

There  was  a  rumor  in  Boston,  about  this  period, 
that  a  young  Portuguese  lady  of  rank,  on  some  occa 
sion  of  political  or  domestic  disquietude,  had  fled  from 
her  home  in  Fayal  and  put  herself  under  the  protec- 


70  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

tion  of  Captain  Hunnewell,  on  board  of  whose  vessel, 
and  at  whose  residence,  she  was  sheltered  until  a 
change  of  affairs.  This  fair  stranger  must  have  been 
the  original  of  Drowne's  Wooden  Image. 


IV. 
HOWE'S  MASQUERADE. 

[THE  second  volume  of  Twice-Told  Tales  opens  with 
four  Legends  of  the  Province  House,  of  which  Howe's 
Masquerade  is  the  first.  The  introductory  sketch  of  the 
Province  House  is  included  in  it.  The  story  was  first  pub 
lished  in  The  United  States  Magazine  and  Democratic 
Review,  May,  1838,  when  the  Province  House  was  in  the 
state  described  in  the  sketch.  Nothing  remains  of  it  now 
hut  a  portion  of  the  exterior  walls,  and  it  is  almost  com 
pletely  hemmed  in  by  huildings.  A  history  of  the  Province 
House  and  of  its  occupants  will  be  found  in  Drake's  Old 
Landmarks  and  Historic  Personages  of  Boston.  It  would 
be  an  excellent  study  to  expand  the  historic  allusions  con 
tained  in  the  procession  of  governors.  Hawthorne  has 
characterized  these  personages  with  great  precision.] 


ONE  afternoon,  last  summer,  while  walking  along 
Washington  street,  my  eye  was  attracted  by  a  sign 
board  protruding  over  a  narrow  archway,  nearly  oppo 
site  the  Old  South  Church.  The  sign  represented  the 
front  of  a  stately  edifice,  which  was  designated  as  the 
"  OLD  PROVINCE  HOUSE,  kept  by  Thomas  Waite." 
I  was  glad  to  be  thus  reminded  of  a  purpose,  long 
entertained,  of  visiting  and  rambling  over  the  mansion 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  71 

of  the  old  royal  governors  of  Massachusetts ;  and  en- 
tering  the  arched  passage,  which  penetrated  through 
the  middle  of  a  brick  row  of  shops,  a  few  steps  trans 
ported  me  from  the  busy  heart  of  modern  Boston  into 
a  small  and  secluded  court-yard.  One  side  of  this 
space  was  occupied  by  the  square  front  of  the  Pro 
vince  House,  three  stories  high,  and  surmounted  by  a 
cupola,  on  the  top  of  which  a  gilded  Indian  was  dis 
cernible,  with  his  bow  bent  and  his  arrow  on  the 
string,  as  if  aiming  at  the  weathercock  on  the  spire  of 
the  Old  South.  The  figure  has  kept  this  attitude  for 
seventy  years  or  more,  ever  since  good  Deacon  Drowne, 
a  cunning  carver  of  wood,  first  stationed  him  on  his 
long  sentinel's  watch  over  the  city. 

The  Province  House  is  constructed  of  brick,  which 
seems  recently  to  have  been  overlaid  with  a  coat  of 
light-colored  paint.  A  flight  of  red  free-stone  steps, 
fenced  in  by  a  balustrade  of  curiously  wrought  iron, 
ascends  from  the  court-yard  to  the  spacious  porch, 
over  which  is  a  balcony,  with  an  iron  balustrade  of 
similar  pattern  and  workmanship  to  that  beneath. 
These  letters  and  figures  — 16  P.  S.  79  —  are  wrought 
into  the  iron-work  of  the  balcony,  and  probably  ex 
press  the  date  of  the  edifice,  with  the  initials  of  its 
founder's  name.1  A  wide  door  with  double  leaves  ad 
mitted  me  into  the  hall  or  entry,  on  the  right"  of 
which  is  the  entrance  to  the  bar-room. 

It  was  in  this  apartment,  I  presume,  that  the  an 
cient  governors  held  their  levees,  with  vice-r^gal 
pomp,  surrounded  by  the  military  men,  the  council 
lors,  the  judges,  and  other  officers  of  the  crown, 
while  all  the  loyalty  of  the  province  thronged  to  do 

1  Peter  Sargeant,  a  Boston  merchant,  who  came  from 
in  1667,  and  was  concerned  in  the  overthrow  of  Audros. 


72  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

them  honor.  But  the  room,  in  its  present  condition, 
cannot  boast  even  of  faded  magnificence.  The  pan 
elled  wainscot  is  covered  with  dingy  paint,  and  ac 
quires  a  duskier  hue  from  the  deep  shadow  into  which 
the  Province  House  is  thrown  by  the  brick  block 
that  shuts  it  in  from  Washington  Street.  A  ray  of 
sunshine  never  visits  this  apartment  any  more  than 
the  glare  of  the  festal  torches  which  have  been  ex 
tinguished  from  the  era  of  the  Revolution.  The  most 
venerable  and  ornamental  object  is  a  chimney-piece 
set  round  with  Dutch  tiles  of  blue-figured  china,  rep 
resenting  scenes  from  Scripture;  and,  for  aught  I 
know,  the  lady  of  Pownall  or  Bernard  may  have  sat 
beside  this  fireplace,  and  told  her  children  the  story 
of  each  blue  tile.  A  bar  in  modern  style,  well  re 
plenished  with  decanters,  bottles,  cigar-boxes,  and  net 
work  bags  of  lemons,  and  provided  with  a  beer-pump 
and  a  soda-fount,  extends  along  one  side  of  the  room. 
At  my  entrance,  an  elderly  person  was  smacking  his 
lips,  with  a  zest  which  satisfied  me  that  the  cellars  of 
the  Province  House  still  hold  good  liquor,  though 
donbtless  of  other  vintages  than  were  quaffed  by  the 
old  governors.  After  sipping  a  glass  of  port  sangaree, 
prepared  by  the  skilful  hands  of  Mr.  Thomas  Waite, 
I  besought  that  worthy  successor  and  representative  of 
so  many  historic  personages  to  conduct  me  over  their 
time-honored  mansion. 

He  readily  complied  ;  but,  to  confess  the  truth,  I 
was  forced  to  draw  strenuously  upon  my  imagination, 
in  order  to  find  aught  that  was  interesting  in  a  house 
which,  without  its  historic  associations,  would  have 
seemed  merely  such  a  tavern  as  is  usually  favored  by 
the  custom  of  decent  city  boarders  and  old-fashioned 
country  gentlemen.  The  chambers,  which  were  prob« 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  73 

ably  spacious  in  former  times,  are  now  cut  up  by 
partitions,  and  subdivided  into  little  nooks,  each  af 
fording  scanty  room  for  the  narrow  bed  and  chair  and 
dressing-table  of  a  single  lodger.  The  great  staircase, 
however,  may  be  termed,  without  much  hyperbole, 
a  feature  of  grandeur  and  magnificence.  It  winds 
through  the  midst  of  the  house  by  flights  of  broad 
steps,  each  flight  terminating  in  a  square  landing- 
place,  whence  the  ascent  is  continued  towards  the 
cupola.  A  carved  balustrade,  freshly  painted  in  the 
lower  stories,  but  growing  dingier  as  we  ascend,  bor 
ders  the  staircase  with  its  quaintly  twisted  and  inter 
twined  pillars,  from  top  to  bottom.  Up  these  stairs 
the  military  boots,  or  perchance  the  gouty  shoes,  of 
many  a  governor  have  trodden,  as  the  wearers  mounted 
to  the  cupola,  which  afforded  them  so  wide  a  view  over 
their  metropolis  and  the  surrounding  country.  The 
cupola  is  an  octagon,  with  several  windows,  and  a 
door  opening  upon  the  roof.  From  this  station,  as  I 
pleased  myself  with  imagining,  Gage  may  have  beheld 
his  disastrous  victory  on  Bunker  Hill  (unless  one 
of  the  tri-moun tains  intervened),  and  Howe  have 
marked  the  approaches  of  Washington's  besieging 
army  ;  although  the  buildings,  since  erected  in  the 
vicinity,  have  shut  out  almost  every  object,  save  the 
steeple  of  the  Old  South,  which  seems  almost  within 
arm's  length.  Descending  from  the  cupola,  I  paused 
in  the  garret  to  observe  the  ponderous  white-oak 
framework,  so  much  more  massive  than  the  frames  of 
modern  houses,  and  thereby  resembling  an  antique 
skeleton.  The  brick  walls,  the  materials  of  which 
were  imported  from  Holland,  and  the  timbers  of  the 
mansion,  are  still  as  sound  as  ever ;  but  the  floors  and 
other  interior  parts  being  greatly  decayed,  it  is  con- 


74  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

templated  to  gut  the  whole,  and  build  a  new  house 
within  the  ancient  frame  and  brick-work.  Among 
other  inconveniences  of  the  present  edifice,  mine  host 
mentioned  that  any  jar  or  motion  was  apt  to  shake 
down  the  dust  of  ages  out  of  the  ceiling  of  one  cham 
ber  upon  the  floor  of  that  beneath  it. 

We  stepped  forth  from  the  great  front  window 
into  the  balcony,  where,  in  old  times,  it  was  doubt 
less  the  custom  of  the  king's  representative  to  show 
himself  to  a  loyal  populace,  requiting  their  huzzas 
and  tossed-up  hats  with  stately  bendings  of  his  dig 
nified  person.  In  those  days,  the  front  of  the  Pro 
vince  House  looked  upon  the  street ;  and  the  whole 
site  now  occupied  by  the  brick  range  of  stores,  as 
well  as  the  present  court-yard,  was  laid  out  in  grass- 
plats,  overshadowed  by  trees  and  bordered  by  a 
wrought-iron  fence.  Now,  the  old  aristocratic  edifice 
hides  its  time-worn  visage  behind  an  upstart  modern 
building ;  at  one  of  the  back  windows  I  observed  some 
pretty  tailoresses,  sewing,  and  chatting,  and  laugh" 
ing,  with  now  and  then  a  careless  glance  towards 
the  balcony.  Descending  thence,  we  again  entered 
the  bar-room,  where  the  elderly  gentleman  above 
mentioned,  the  smack  of  whose  lips  had  spoken  so 
favorably  for  Mr.  Waite's  good  liquor,  was  still 
lounging  in  his  chair.  He  seemed  to  be,  if  not  a 
lodger,  at  least  a  familar  visitor  of  the  house,  who 
might  be  supposed  to  have  his  regular  score  at  the 
bar,  his  summer  seat  at  the  open  window,  and  his 
prescriptive  corner  at  the  winter's  fireside.  Being  of 
a  sociable  aspect,  I  ventured  to  address  him  with  a 
remark,  calculated  to  draw  forth  his  historical  remi 
niscences,  if  any  such  were  in  his  mind  ;  and  it  grati 
fied  me  to  discover,  that,  between  memory  and  tradi- 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  75 

tion,  the  old  gentleman  was  really  possessed  of  some 
very  pleasant  gossip  about  the  Province  House.  The 
portion  of  his  talk  which  chiefly  interested  me  was  the 
outline  of  the  following  legend.  He  professed  to  have 
received  it  at  one  or  two  removes  from  an  eye-wit 
ness  ;  but  this  derivation,  together  with  the  lapse 
of  time,  must  have  afforded  opportunities  for  many 
variations  of  the  narrative  ;  so  that,  despairing  of  lit 
eral  and  absolute  truth,  I  have  not  scrupled  to  make 
such  further  changes  as  seemed  conducive  to  the  read 
er's  profit  and  delight. 

At  one  of  the  entertainments  given  at  the  Province 
House,  during  the  latter  part  of  the  siege  of  Boston, 
there  passed  a  scene  which  has  never  yet  been  satis 
factorily  explained.  The  officers  of  the  British  army, 
and  the  loyal  gentry  of  the  province,  most  of  whom 
were  collected  within  the  beleaguered  town,  had  been 
invited  to  a  masked  ball ;  for  it  was  the  policy  of  Sir 
William  Howe  to  hide  the  distress  and  danger  of  the 
period,  and  the  desperate  aspect  of  the  siege,  under  an 
ostentation  of  festivity.  The  spectacle  of  this  even 
ing,  if  the  oldest  members  of  the  provincial  court 
circle  might  be  believed,  was  the  most  gay  and  gor 
geous  affair  that  had  occurred  in  the  annals  of  the 
government.  The  brilliantly  lighted  apartments  were 
thronged  with  figures  that  seemed  to  have  stepped 
from  the  dark  canvas  of  historic  portraits,  or  to  have 
flitted  forth  from  the  magic  pages  of  romance,  or  at 
least  to  have  flown  hither  from  one  of  the  London 
theatres,  without  a  change  of  garments.  Steeled 
knights  of  the  Conquest,  bearded  statesmen  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  high-ruffled  ladies  of  her  court,  were 
mingled  with  characters  of  comedy,  such  as  a  party- 
colored  Merry  Andrew,  jingling  his  cap  and  bells ;  a 


76  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

Falstaff,  almost  as  provocative  of  laughter  as  his  pro 
totype  ;  and  a  Don  Quixote,  with  a  bean-pole  for  a 
lance  and  a  potlid  for  a  shield. 

But  the  broadest  merriment  was  excited  by  a  group 
of  figures  ridiculously  dressed  in  old  regimentals, 
which  seemed  to  have  been  purchased  at  a  military 
rag-fair,  or  pilfered  from  some  receptacle  of  the  cast- 
off  clothes  of  both  the  French  and  British  armies.  Por 
tions  of  their  attire  had  probably  been  worn  at  the 
siege  of  Louisburg,  and  the  coats  of  most  recent  cut 
might  have  been  rent  and  tattered  by  sword,  ball,  or 
bayonet,  as  long  ago  as  Wolfe's  victory.  One  of  these 
worthies  —  a  tall,  lank  figure,  brandishing  a  rusty 
sword  of  immense  longitude,  purported  to  be  no  less 
a  personage  than  General  George  Washington ;  and 
the  other  principal  officers  of  the  American  army, 
such  as  Gates,  Lee,  Putnam,  Schuyler,  Ward,  and 
Heath,  were  represented  by  similar  scarecrows.  An 
interview  in  the  mock-heroic  style,  between  the  rebel 
warriors  and  the  British  Commander-in-chief,  was  re 
ceived  with  immense  applause,  which  came  loudest 
of  all  from  the  loyalists  of  the  colony.  There  was  one 
of  the  guests,  however,  who  stood  apart,  eying  these 
antics  sternly  and  scornfully,  at  once  with  a  frown  and 
a  bitter  smile. 

It  was  an  old  man,  formerly  of  high  station  and 
great  repute  in  the  province,  and  who  had  been  a  very 
famous  soldier  in  his  day.  Some  surprise  had  been 
expressed,  that  a  person  of  Colonel  Joliffe's  known 
whig  principles,  though  now  too  old  to  take  an  active 
part  in  the  contest,  should  have  remained  in  Boston 
during  the  siege,  and  especially  that  he  should  consent 
to  show  himself  in  the  mansion  of  Sir  William  Howe. 
But  thither  he  had  come,  with  a  fair  granddaughter 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  11 

under  his  arm  ;  and  there,  amid  all  the  mirth  and  buf 
foonery,  stood  this  stern  old  figure,  the  best  sustained 
character  in  the  masquerade,  because  so  well  represent 
ing  the  antique  spirit  of  his  native  land.  The  other 
guests  affirmed  that  Colonel  Joliffe's  black  puritanical 
scowl  threw  a  shadow  round  about  him ;  although  in 
spite  of  his  sombre  influence,  their  gayety  continued  to 
blaze  higher,  like  (an  ominous  comparison)  the  flick 
ering  brilliancy  of  a  lamp  which  has  but  a  little  while 
to  burn.  Eleven  strokes,  full  half  an  hour  ago,  had 
pealed  from  the  clock  of  the  Old  South,  when  a  rumor 
was  circulated  among  the  company  that  some  new 
spectacle  or  pageant  was  about  to  be  exhibited,  which 
should  put  a  fitting  close  to  the  splendid  festivities  of 
the  night. 

"What  new  jest  has  your  Excellency  in  hand?" 
asked  the  Rev.  Mather  Byles,  whose  Presbyterian 
scruples  had  not  kept  him  from  the  entertainment. 
"  Trust  me,  sir,  I  have  already  laughed  more  than  be 
seems  my  cloth,  at  your  Homeric  confabulation  with 
yonder  ragamuffin  general  of  the  rebels.  One  other 
such  fit  of  merriment,  and  I  must  throw  off  my  cler 
ical  wig  and  band." 

"  Not  so,  good  Dr.  Byles,"  answered  Sir  William 
Howe ;  "  if  mirth  were  a  crime,  you  had  never  gained 
your  doctorate  in  divinity.  As  to  this  new  foolery,  I 
know  no  more  about  it  than  yourself  ;  perhaps  not  so 
much.  Honestly  now,  Doctor,  have  you  not  stirred 
up  the  sober  brains  of  some  of  your  countrymen  to 
enact  a  scene  in  our  masquerade  ?  " 

"Perhaps,"  slyly  remarked  the  granddaughter  of 
Colonel  Joliffe,  whose  high  spirit  had  been  stung  by 
many  taunts  against  New  England, — "perhaps  we  are 
to  have  a  mask  of  allegorical  figures.  Victory,  with 


78  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

trophies  from  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill,  —  Plenty, 
with  her  overflowing  horn,  to  typify  the  present  abun 
dance  in  this  good  town,  —  and  Glory,  with  a  wreath 
for  his  Excellency's  brow." 

Sir  William  Howe  smiled  at  words  which  he  would 
have  answered  with  one  of  his  darkest  frowns,  had 
they  been  uttered  by  lips  that  wore  a  beard.  He  was 
spared  the  necessity  of  a  retort,  by  a  singular  inter 
ruption.  A  sound  of  music  was  heard  without  the 
house,  as  if  proceeding  from  a  full  band  of  military 
instruments  stationed  in  the  street,  playing,  not  such 
a  festal  strain  as  was  suited  to  the  occasion,  but  a  slow 
funeral  march.  The  drums  appeared  to  be  muffled, 
and  the  trumpets  poured  forth  a  wailing  breath, 
which  at  once  hushed  the  merriment  of  the  auditors, 
filling  all  with  wonder  and  some  with  apprehension. 
The  idea  occurred  to  many,  that  either  the  funeral 
procession  of  some  great  personage  had  halted  in  front 
of  the  Province  House,  or  that  a  corpse,  in  a  velvet- 
covered  and  gorgeously  decorated  coffin,  was  about  to 
be  borne  from  the  portal.  After  listening  a  moment, 
Sir  William  Howe  called,  in  a  stern  voice,  to  the 
leader  of  the  musicians,  who  had  hitherto  enlivened 
the  entertainment  with  gay  and  lightsome  melodies. 
The  man  was  drum-major  to  one  of  the  British  regi 
ments. 

"  Dighton,"  demanded  the  general,  "  what  means 
this  foolery  ?  Bid  your  band  silence  that  dead  march ; 
or,  by  my  word,  they  shall  have  sufficient  cause  for 
their  lugubrious  strains !  Silence  it,  sirrah." 

"  Please  your  Honor,"  answered  the  drum-major, 
whose  rubicund  visage  had  lost  all  its  color,  "  the  fault 
is  none  of  mine.  I  and  my  band  are  all  here  together ; 
and  I  question  whether  there  be  a  man  of  us  that 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  79 

could  play  that  march  without  book.  I  never  heard 
it  but  once  before,  and  that  was  at  the  funeral  of  his 
late  Majesty,  King  George  the  Second." 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  Sir  William  Howe,  recovering 
his  composure  ;  "  it  is  the  prelude  to  some  masquerad 
ing  antic.  Let  it  pass." 

A  figure  now  presented  itself,  but  among  the  many 
fantastic  masks  that  were  dispersed  through  the  apart 
ments,  none  could  tell  precisely  from  whence  it  came. 
It  was  a  man  in  an  old-fashioned  dress  of  black  serge, 
and  having  the  aspect  of  a  steward,  or  principal  do 
mestic  in  the  household  of  a  nobleman,  or  great  Eng 
lish  landholder.  This  figure  advanced  to  the  outer 
door  of  the  mansion,  and  throwing  both  its  leaves  wide 
open,  withdrew  a  little  to  one  side  and  looked  back 
towards  the  grand  staircase,  as  if  expecting  some  per 
son  to  descend.  At  the  same  time  the  music  in  the 
street  sounded  a  loud  and  doleful  summons.  The 
eyes  of  Sir  William  Howe  and  his  guests  being  di 
rected  to  the  staircase,  there  appeared,  on  the  upper 
most  landing-place  that  was  discernible  from  the  bot 
tom,  several  personages  descending  towards  the  door. 
The  foremost  was  a  man  of  stern  visage,  wearing  a 
steeple-crowned  hat  and  a  skullcap  beneath  it ;  a  dark 
cloak,  and  huge  wrinkled  boots  that  came  half-way  up 
his  legs.  Under  his  arm  was  a  rolled  up  banner, 
which  seemed  to  be  the  banner  of  England,  but 
strangely  rent  and  torn  ;  he  had  a  sword  in  his  right 
hand,  and  grasped  a  Bible  in  his  left.  The  next  figure 
was  of  milder  aspect,  yet  full  of  dignity,  wearing  a 
broad  ruff,  over  which  descended  a  beard,  a  gown  of 
wrought  velvet,  and  a  doublet  and  hose  of  black  satin. 
He  carried  a  roll  of  manuscript  in  his  hand.  Close 
behind  these  two  came  a  young  man  of  very  striking 


80  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

countenance  and  demeanor,  with  deep  thought  and 
contemplation  on  his  brow,  and  perhaps  a  flash  of  en 
thusiasm  in  his  eye.  His  garb,  like  that  of  his  prede 
cessors,  was  of  an  antique  fashion,  and  there  was  a  stain 
of  blood  upon  his  ruff.  In  the  same  group  with  these 
were  three  or  four  others,  all  men  of  dignity  and  evi 
dent  command,  and  bearing  themselves  like  person 
ages  who  were  accustomed  to  the  gaze  of  the  multi 
tude.  It  was  the  idea  of  the  beholders,  that  these  fig 
ures  went  to  join  the  mysterious  funeral  that  had 
halted  in  front  of  the  Province  House ;  yet  that  sup 
position  seemed  to  be  contradicted  by  the  air  of  tri 
umph  with  which  they  waved  their  hands,  as  they 
crossed  the  threshold  and  vanished  through  the  portal. 

"  In  the  Devil's  name,  what  is  this  ?  "  muttered  Sir 
William  Howe  to  a  gentleman  beside  him ;  "  a  pro 
cession  of  the  regicide  judges  of  King  Charles  the 
martyr  ?  " 

"  These,"  said  Colonel  Joliffe,  breaking  the  silence 
almost  for  the  first  time  that  evening,  —  "  these,  if  I 
interpret  them  aright,  are  the  Puritan  governors  — 
the  rulers  of  the  old,  original  democracy  of  Massachu 
setts.  Endicott,  with  the  banner  from  which  he  had 
torn  the  symbol  of  subjection,1  and  Winthrop,  and 
Sir  Henry  Vane,  and  Dudley,  Haynes,  Bellinghain, 
and  Leverett." 

"  Why  had  that  young  man  a  stain  of  blood  upon 
his  ruff  ?  "  asked  Miss  Joliffe. 

"  Because,  in  after  years,"  answered  her  grand, 
father,  "  he  laid  down  the  wisest  head  in  England 
upon  the  block,  for  the  principles  of  liberty." 

"  Will  not  your  Excellency  order  out  the  guard  ?  " 

1  See   Hawthorne's  own  story  of    The  Red  Cross  in  Grand 
father's  Chair. 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  81 

whispered  Lord  Percy,  who,  with  other  British  offi 
cers,  had  now  assembled  round  the  general.  "  There 
may  be  a  plot  under  this  mummery." 

"  Tush !  we  have  nothing  to  fear,"  carelessly  replied 
Sir  William  Howe.  "  There  can  be  no  worse  treason 
in  the  matter  than  a  jest,  and  that  somewhat  of  the 
dullest.  Even  were  it  a  sharp  and  bitter  one,  our  best 
policy  would  be  to  laugh  it  off.  See,  here  come  more 
of  these  gentry." 

Another  group  of  characters  had  now  partly  de 
scended  the  staircase.  The  first  was  a  venerable  and 
white-bearded  patriarch,  who  cautiously  felt  his  way 
downward  with  a  staff.  Treading  hastily  behind  him, 
and  stretching  forth  his  gauntleted  hand  as  if  to  grasp 
the  old  man's  shoulder,  came  a  tall,  soldier-like  figure, 
equipped  with  a  plumed  cap  of  steel,  a  bright  breast 
plate,  and  a  long  sword,  which  rattled  against  the 
stairs.  Next  was  seen  a  stout  man,  dressed  in  rich 
and  courtly  attire,  but  not  of  courtly  demeanor ;  his 
gait  had  the  swinging  motion  of  a  seaman's  walk ;  and 
chancing  to  stumble  on  the  staircase,  he  suddenly  grew 
wrathful,  and  was  heard  to  mutter  an  oath.  He  was 
followed  by  a  noble-looking  personage  in  a  curled  wig, 
such  as  are  represented  in  the  portraits  of  Queen 
Anne's  time  and  earlier  ;  and  the  breast  of  his  coat 
was  decorated  with  an  embroidered  star.  While  ad 
vancing  to  the  door;  he  bowed  to  the  right  hand  and 
to  the  left,  in  a  very  gracious  and  insinuating  style  ; 
but  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  unlike  the  early  Puri 
tan  governors,  he  seemed  to  wring  his  hands  with  sor 
row. 

"Prithee,  play  the  part  of  a  chorus,  good  Dr. 
Byles,"  said  Sir  William  Howe.  "  What  worthies 
are  these  ?  " 


82  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

"  If  it  please  your  Excellency,  they  lived  somewhat 
before  ray  day,"  answered  the  Doctor ;  "  but  doubtless 
our  friend,  the  Colonel,  has  been  hand  in  glove  with 
them." 

"Their  living  faces  I  never  looked  upon,"  said 
Colonel  Joliffe,  gravely  ;  "  although  I  have  spoken 
face  to  face  with  many  rulers  of  this  land,  and  shall 
greet  yet  another  with  an  old  man's  blessing,  ere  I  die. 
But  we  talk  of  these  figures.  I  take  the  venerable 
patriarch  to  be  Bradstreet,  the  last  of  the  Puritans, 
who  was  governor  at  ninety,  or  thereabouts.  The 
next  is  Sir  Edmund  Andros,  a  tyrant,  as  any  New 
England  school-boy  will  tell  you;  and  therefore  the 
people  cast  him  down  from  his  high  seat  into  a 
dungeon.  Then  comes  Sir  William  Phipps,  shep 
herd,  cooper,  sea-captain,  and  governor :  may  many 
of  his  countrymen  rise  as  high,  from  as  low  an  origin ! 
Lastly,  you  saw  the  gracious  Earl  of  Bellamont,  who 
ruled  us  under  King  William." 

"  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  it  all  ?  "  asked  Lord 
Percy. 

"Now,  were  I  a  rebel,"  said  Miss  Joliffe,  half 
aloud,  "I  might  fancy  that  the  ghosts  of  these  ancient 
governors  had  been  summoned  to  form  the  funeral 
procession  of  royal  authority  in  New  England." 

Several  other  figures  were  now  seen  at  the  turn  of 
the  staircase.  The  one  in  advance  had  a  thoughtful, 
anxious,  and  somewhat  crafty  expression  of  face ;  and 
in  spite  of  his  loftiness  of  manner,  which  was  evi 
dently  the  result  both  of  an  ambitious  spirit  and  of 
long  continuance  in  high  stations,  he  seemed  not  in 
capable  of  cringing  to  a  greater  than  himself.  A  few 
steps  behind  came  an  officer  in  a  scarlet  and  embroid 
ered  uniform,  cut  in  a  fashion  old  enough  to  have 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  83 

been  worn  by  the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  His  nose 
had  a  rubicund  tinge,  which,  together  with  the  twinkle 
of  his  eye,  might  have  marked  him  as  a  lover  of  the 
wine-cup  and  good-fellowship  ;  notwithstanding  which 
tokens,  he  appeared  ill  at  ease,  and  often  glanced 
around  hitn,  as  if  apprehensive  of  some  secret  mischief. 
Next  came  a  portly  gentleman,  wearing  a  coat  of 
shaggy  cloth,  lined  with  silken  velvet ;  he  had  sense, 
shrewdness,  and  humor  in  his,  face,  and  a  folio  vol 
ume  under  his  arm ;  but  his  aspect  was  that  of  a  man 
vexed  and  tormented  beyond  all  patience  and  harassed 
almost  to  death.  He  went  hastily  down,  and  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  dignified  person,  dressed  in  a  purple  velvet 
suit,  with  very  rich  embroidery ;  his  demeanor  would 
have  possessed  much  stateliness,  only  that  a  grievous 
fit  of  the  gout  compelled  him  to  hobble  from  stair  to 
stair,  with  contortions  of  face  and  body.  When  Dr. 
Byles  beheld  this  figure  on  the  staircase,  he  shivered 
as  with  an  ague,  but  continued  to  watch  him  stead 
fastly,  until  the  gouty  gentleman  had  reached  the 
threshold,  made  a  gesture  of  anguish  and  despair,  and 
vanished  into  the  outer  gloom,  whither  the  funeral 
music  summoned  him. 

*'  Governor  Belcher  !  —  my  old  patron !  —  in  his 
very  shape  and  dress !  "  gasped  Dr.  Byles.  "  This  is 
an  awful  mockery !  " 

"A  tedious  foolery,  rather,"  said  Sir  William  Howe, 
with  an  air  of  indifference.  "  But  who  were  the  three 
that  preceded  him  ?  " 

"  Governor  Dudley,  a  cunning  politician,  —  yet  his 
craft  once  brought  him  to  a  prison,"  replied  Colonel 
Joliffe ;  "  Governor  Shute,  formerly  a  colonel  under 
Marlborough,  and  whom  the  people  frightened  out  of 
the  province ;  and  learned  Governor  Burnet,  whom 
the  Legislature  tormented  into  a  mortal  fever." 


84  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

"Methinks  they  were  miserable  men,  these  royal 
governors  of  Massachusetts,"  observed  Miss  Joliffe. 
"  Heavens,  how  dim  the  light  grows  !  " 

It  was  certainly  a  fact  that  the  large  lamp  which  il 
luminated  the  staircase  now  burned  dim  and  duskily : 
so  that  several  figures,  which  passed  hastily  down  the 
stairs  and  went  forth  from  the  porch,  appeared  rather 
like  shadows  than  persons  of  fleshly  substance.  Sir 
"William  Howe  and  his  guests  stood  at  the  doors  of 
the  contiguous  apartments,  watching  the  progress  of 
this  singular  pageant,  with  various  emotions  of  anger, 
contempt,  or  half-acknowledged  fear,  but  still  with  an 
anxious  curiosity.  The  shapes,  which  now  seemed 
hastening  to  join  the  mysterious  procession,  were  rec 
ognized  rather  by  striking  peculiarities  of  dress,  or 
broad  characteristics  of  manner,  than  by  any  percepti 
ble  resemblance  of  features  to  their  prototypes.  Their 
faces,  indeed,  were  invariably  kept  in  deep  shadow. 
But  Dr.  Byles,  and  other  gentlemen  who  had  long 
been  familiar  with  the  successive  rulers  of  the  prov 
ince,  were  heard  to  whisper  the  name  of  Shirley,  of 
Pownall,  of  Sir  Francis  Bernard,  and  of  the  well- 
remembered  Hutchinson  ;  thereby  confessing  that  the 
actors,  whoever  they  might  be,  in  this  spectral  march 
of  governors,  had  succeeded  in  putting  on  some  distant 
portraiture  of  the  real  personages.  As  they  vanished 
from  the  door,  still  did  these  shadows  toss  their  arms 
into  the  gloom  of  night,  with  a  dread  expression  of 
woe.  Following  the  mimic  representative  of  Hutchin 
son  came  a  military  figure,  holding  before  his  face  the 
cocked  hat  which  he  had  taken  from  his  powdered 
head ;  but  his  epaulets  and  other  insignia  of  rank 
were  those  of  a  general  officer ;  and  something  in  his 
mien  reminded  the  beholder  of  one  who  had  recently 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  85 

been  master  of  the  Province  House,  and  chief  of  all 
the  land. 

"  The  shape  of  Gage,  as  true  as  in  a  looking-glass !  " 
exclaimed  Lord  Percy,  turning  pale. 

"  No,  surely,"  cried  Miss  Joliffe,  laughing  hysteri 
cally  ;  "  it  could  not  be  Gage,  or  Sir  William  would 
have  greeted  his  old  comrade  in  arms !  Perhaps  he 
will  not  suffer  the  next  to  pass  unchallenged." 

"Of  that  be  assured,  young  lady,"  answered  Sir 
William  Howe,  fixing  his  eyes,  with  a  very  marked 
expression,  upon  the  immovable  visage  of  her  grand 
father.  "  I  have  long  enough  delayed  to  pay  the  cere 
monies  of  a  host  to  these  departing  guests.  The  next 
that  takes  his  leave  shall  receive  due  courtesy." 

A  wild  and  dreary  burst  of  music  came  through  the 
open  door.  It  seemed  as  if  the  procession,  which  had 
been  gradually  filling  up  its  ranks,  were  now  about  to 
move,  and  this  loud  peal  of  the  wailing  trumpets,  and 
roll  of  the  muffled  drums,  were  a  call  to  some  loiterer 
to  make  haste.  Many  eyes,  by  an  irresistible  impulse, 
were  turned  upon  Sir  William  Howe,  as  if  it  were  he 
whom  the  dreary  music  summoned  to  the  funeral  of 
departed  power. 

"  See  !  —  here  comes  the  last  !  "  whispered  Miss 
Joliffe,  pointing  her  tremulous  finger  to  the  staircase. 

A  figure  had  come  into  view  as  if  descending  the 
stairs ;  although  so  dusky  was  the  region  whence  it 
emerged,  some  of  the  spectators  fancied  that  they  had 
seen  this  human  shape  suddenly  moulding  itself  amid 
the  gloom.  Downward  the  figure  came,  with  a  stately 
and  martial  tread,  and  reaching  the  lowest  stair  was 
observed  to  be  a  tall  man,  booted  and  wrapped  in  a 
military  cloak,  which  was  drawn  up  around  the  face  so 
as  to  meet  the  flapped  brim  of  a  laced  hat.  The  fea- 


86  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

tures,  therefore,  were  completely  hidden.  But  the 
British  officers  deemed  that  they  had  seen  that  mili 
tary  cloak  before,  and  even  recognized  the  frayed  em 
broidery  on  the  collar,  as  well  as  the  gilded  scabbard 
of  a  sword  which  protruded  from  the  folds  of  the 
cloak,  and  glittered  in  a  vivid  gleam  of  light.  Apart 
from  these  trifling  particulars,  there  were  characteris 
tics  of  gait  and  bearing  which  impelled  the  wondering 
guests  to  glance  from  the  shrouded  figure  to  Sir  Wil 
liam  Howe,  as  if  to  satisfy  themselves  that  their  host 
had  not  suddenly  vanished  from  the  midst  of  them. 

With  a  dark  flush  of  wrath  upon  his  brow,  they  saw 
the  general  draw  his  sword  and  advance  to  meet  the 
figure  in  the  cloak  before  the  latter  had  stepped  one 
pace  upon  the  floor. 

*'  Villain,  unmuffle  yourself !  "  cried  he.  "  You 
pass  no  farther !  " 

The  figure,  without  blenching  a  hair's-breath  from 
the  sword  which  was  pointed  at  his  breast,  made  a 
solemn  pause  and  lowered  the  cape  of  the  cloak  from 
about  his  face,  yet  not  sufficiently  for  the  spectators 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  it.  But  Sir  William  Howe  had 
evidently  seen  enough.  The  sternness  of  his  counte 
nance  gave  place  to  a  look  of  wild  amazement,  if  not 
horror,  while  he  recoiled  several  steps  from  the  figure, 
and  let  fall  his  sword  upon  the  floor.  The  martial 
shape  again  drew  the  cloak  about  his  features  and 
passed  on ;  but  reaching  the  threshold,  with  his  back 
towards  the  spectators,  he  was  seen  to  stamp  his  foot 
and  shake  his  clinched  hands  ir  the  air.  It  was  after 
wards  affirmed  that  Sir  William  Howe  had  repeated 
that  self-same  gesture  of  rage  and  sorrow,  when,  for 
the  last  time,  and  as  the  last  royal  governor,  he  passed 
through  the  portal  of  the  Province  House. 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  87 

"  Hark!  —  the  procession  moves,"  said  Miss  Joliffe. 

The  music  was  dying  away  along  the  street,  and  its 
dismal  strains  were  mingled  with  the  knell  of  midnight 
from  the  steeple  of  the  Old  South,  and  with  the  roar 
of  artillery,  which  announced  that  the  beleaguering 
army  of  Washington  had  intrenched  itself  upon  a 
nearer  height  than  before.  As  the  deep  boom  of  the 
cannon  smote  upon  his  ear,  Colonel  Joliffe  raised  him 
self  to  the  full  height  of  his  aged  form,  and  smiled 
sternly  on  the  British  general. 

"  Would  your  Excellency  inquire  further  into  the 
mystery  of  the  pageant  ?  "  said  he. 

"Take  care  of  your  gray  head !  "  cried  Sir  William 
Howe,  fiercely,  though  with  a  quivering  lip.  "  It  has 
stood  too  long  on  a  traitor's  shoulders  !  " 

"  You  must  make  haste  to  chop  it  off,  then,"  calmly 
replied  the  Colonel ;  "  for  a  few  hours  longer,  and  not 
all  the  power  of  Sir  William  Howe,  nor  of  his  master, 
shall  cause  one  of  these  gray  hairs  to  fall.  The  em 
pire  of  Britain,  in  this  ancient  province,  is  at  its  last 
gasp  to-night ;  almost  while  I  speak  it  is  a  dead 
corpse ;  and  methinks  the  shadows  of  the  old  gover 
nors  are  fit  mourners  at  its  funeral !  " 

With  these  words  Colonel  Joliffe  threw  on  his  cloak, 
and  drawing  his  granddaughter's  arm  within  his  own, 
retired  from  the  last  festival  that  a  British  ruler  ever 
held  in  the  old  province  of  Massachusetts  Bay.  It 
was  supposed  that  the  Colonel  and  the  young  lady 
possessed  some  secret  intelligence  in  regard  to  the 
mysterious  pageant  of  that  night.  However  this 
might  be,  such  knowledge  has  never  become  general. 
The  actors  in  the  scene  have  vanished  into  deeper  ob 
scurity  than  even  that  wild  Indian  band  who  scattered 
the  cargoes  of  the  tea-ships  on  the  waves,  and  gained  a 


88  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

place  in  history,  yet  left  no  names.  But  superstition, 
among  other  legends  of  this  mansion,  repeats  the 
wondrous  tale,  that  on  the  anniversary  night  of  Brit 
ain's  discomfiture,  the  ghosts  of  the  ancient  governors 
of  Massachusetts  still  glide  through  the  portal  of  the 
Province  House.  And,  last  of  all,  comes  a  figure 
shrouded  in  a  military  cloak,  tossing  his  clinched  hands 
into  the  air,  and  stamping  his  iron-shod  boots  upon  the 
broad  freestone  steps  with  a  semblance  of  feverish 
despair,  but  without  the  sound  of  a  foot-tramp. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


INTRODUCTION. 

IRVING  may  be  named  as  the  first  author  in  the  United 
States  whose  writings  made  a  place  for  themselves  in  gen 
eral  literature.  Franklin,  indeed,  had  preceded  him  with 
his  autobiography,  but  Franklin  belongs  rather  to  the  colo 
nial  period.  It  was  under  the  influences  of  that  time  that 
his  mind  and  taste  were  formed,  and  there  was  a  marked 
difference  between  the  Boston  and  Philadelphia  of  Frank 
lin's  youth  and  the  New  York  of  Irving's  time.  Politics, 
commerce,  and  the  rise  of  industries  were  rapidly  changing 
social  relations  and  manners,  while  the  country  was  still 
dependent  on  England  for  its  higher  literature.  It  had 
hardly  begun  to  find  materials  for  literature  in  its  own  past 
or  in  its  aspects  of  nature,  yet  there  was  a  very  positive  ele 
ment  in  life  which  resented  foreign  interference.  There 
were  thus  two  currents  crossing  each  other :  the  common  life 
which  was  narrowly  American,  and  the  cultivated  taste 
which  was  English,  or  imitative  of  England.  Irving's  first 
ventures,  in  company  with  his  brothers  and  Paulding,  were 
in  the  attempt  to  represent  New  York  in  literature  upon  the 
model  of  contemporary  or  recent  presentations  of  London. 
"The  town"  in  the  minds  of  these  young  writers  was  that 
portion  of  New  York  society  which  might  be  construed  into 
a  miniature  reflection  of  London  wit  and  amusement.  His 
associates  never  advanced  beyond  this  stage,  but  with  Wash 
ington  Irving  the  sketches  which  he  wrote  under  the  signa- 


90  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

ture  of  Jonathan  Old  Style  and  in  the  medley  of  Sal 
magundi  were  only  the  first  experiments  of  a  mind  capa 
ble  of  larger  things.  After  five  or  six  years  of  trifling 
with  his  pen,  he  wrote  and  published,  in  1809,  A  History 
of  New  York,  by  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  which  he  be 
gan  in  company  with  his  brother  Peter  as  a  mere  jeu  d'es- 
prit,  but  turned  into  a  more  determined  work  of  humor,  as 
the  capabilities  of  the  subject  disclosed  themselves.  Grave 
historians  had  paid  little  attention  to  the  record  of  New 
York  under  the  Dutch  ;  Irving,  who  saw  the  humorous 
contrast  between  the  traditional  Dutch  society  of  his  day 
and  the  pushing  new  democracy,  seized  upon  the  early 
history  and  made  it  the  occasion  for  a  good-natured  bur 
lesque.  He  shocked  the  old  families  about  him,  but  he 
amused  everybody  else,  and  the  book,  going  to  England, 
made  his  name  at  once  known  to  those  who  had  the  making 
there  of  literary  reputations. 

Irving  himself  was  born  of  a  Scottish  father  and  English 
mother,  who  had  come  to  this  country  only  twenty  years 
before.  He  was  but  little  removed,  therefore,  from  the  tra 
ditions  of  Great  Britain,  and  his  brothers  and  he  carried  on  a 
trading  business  with  the  old  country.  His  own  tastes  werr 
not  mercantile,  and  he  was  only  silent  partner  in  the  house ; 
he  wrote  occasionally  and  was  for  a  time  the  editor  of  a  mag 
azine,  but  his  pleasure  was  chiefly  in  travel,  good  literature, 
and  good  society.  It  was  while  he  was  in  England,  in  1818, 
that  the  house  in  which  he  was  a  partner  failed,  and  he  was 
thrown  on  his  own  resources.  Necessity  gave  the  slight  spur 
which  was  wanting  to  his  inclination,  and  he  began  with 
deliberation  the  career  of  an  author.  He  had  found  himself 
at  home  in  England.  His  family  origin  and  his  taste  for 
the  best  literature  had  made  him  English  in  his  sympathies 
and  tastes,  and  his  residence  and  travels  there,  the  society 
which  he  entered  and  the  friends  he  made,  confirmed  him  in 
English  habits.  Nevertheless  he  was  sturdily  American  in 
his  principles ;  he  was  strongly  attached  to  New  York  and 


INTRODUCTION.  91 

his  American  friends,  and  was  always  a  looker-on  in  Eng 
land.  His  foreign  birth  and  education  gave  him  significant 
advantages  as  an  observer  of  English  life,  and  he  at  once 
began  the  writing  of  those  papers,  stories,  and  sketches 
which  appeared  iu  the  separate  numbers  of  The  Sketch 
Book,  in  Bracebridge  Hall,  and  in  Tales  of  a  Traveller. 
They  were  chiefly  drawn  from  material  accumulated  abroad, 
but  an  occasional  American  subject  was  taken.  Irving  in 
stinctively  felt  that  by  the  circumstances  of  the  time  and  the 
bent  of  his  genius  he  could  pursue  his  calling  more  safely 
abroad  than  at  home.  He  remained  in  Europe  seventeen 
years,  sending  home  his  books  for  publication,  and  securing 
also  the  profitable  results  of  publication  in  London.  During 
that  time,  besides  the  books  above  named,  he  wrote  the 
History  of  the  Life  and  Voyages  of  Christopher  Columbus  ; 
the  Voyages  and  Discoveries  of  the  Companions  of  Colum 
bus  ;  A  Chronicle  of  the  Conquest  of  Granada  ;  and  The 
Alhambra.  The  Spanish  material  was  obtained  while 
residing  in  Spain,  whither  he  went  at  the  suggestion  of  the 
American  minister  to  make  translations  of  documents  relat 
ing  to  the  voyages  of  Columbus  which  had  recently  been 
collected.  Irving's  training  and  tastes  led  him  rather  into 
the  construction  of  popular  narrative  than  into  the  work  of  a 
scientific  historian,  and,  with  his  strong  American  affections, 
he  was  quick  to  see  the  interest  and  value  which  lay  in  the 
history  of  Spain  as  connected  with  America.  He  was  emi 
nently  a  raconteur,  very  skilful  and  graceful  in  the  shaping 
of  old  material ;  his  humor  played  freely  over  the  surface  of 
Ms  writing,  and,  with  little  power  to  create  characters  or 
plots,  he  had  an  unfailing  perception  of  the  literary  capabil 
ities  of  scenes  and  persons  which  came  under  his  observation. 
He  came  back  to  America  in  1832  with  an  established 
reputation,  and  was  welcomed  enthusiastically  by  his  friends 
and  countrymen.  He  travelled  into  the  new  parts  of  Amer 
ica,  and  spent  ten  years  at  home,  industriously  working  at 
the  material  which  had  accumulated  in  his  hands  when 


92  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

abroad,  and  had  been  increased  during  his  travels  in  the 
West.  In  this  period  he  published  Legends  of  the  Con 
quest  of  Spain ;  The  Crayon  Miscellany,  including  his 
Tour  on  the  Prairies,  Abbotsford  and  Newstead  Abbey ; 
Astoria ;  a  number  of  papers  in  the  Knickerbocker  Maga 
zine,  afterwards  published  under  the  title  of  Wolferfs 
Roost ;  and  edited  the  Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville, 
U.  S.  A.,  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  the  Far  West. 

In  1842  he  went  back  to  Spain  as  American  minister, 
holding  the  office  for  four  years,  when  he  returned  to  Amer. 
ica,  established  himself  at  his  home,  Sunnyside  on  the  banks 
of  the  Hudson,  and  remained  there  until  his  death  in  1859. 
The  fruits  of  this  final  period  were  Mahomet  and  his  Suc 
cessors,  which,  with  a  volume  of  posthumous  publication, 
Spanish  Papers  and  other  Miscellanies,  completed  the 
series  of  Spanish  and  Moorish  subjects  which  form  a  distinct 
part  of  his  writings  ;  Oliver  Goldsmith,  a  Biography  ;  and 
finally  a  Life  of  Washington,  which  occupied  the  closing 
years  of  his  life,  —  years  which  were  not  free  from  physical 
suffering.  In  this  book  Irving  embodied  his  strong  admira 
tion  for  the  subject,  whose  name  he  bore  and  whose  blessing 
he  had  received  as  a  child ;  he  employed,  too,  a  pen  which  had 
been  trained  by  its  labors  on  the  Spanish  material,  and,  like 
that  series,  the  work  is  marked  by  good  taste,  artistic  sense 
of  proportion,  faithfulness,  and  candor,  rather  than  by  the 
severer  work  of  the  historian.  It  is  a  popular  and  a  fair 
life  of  Washington  and  account  of  the  war  for  independence. 

Irving's  personal  and  literary  history  is  recorded  in  The 
Life  and  Letters  of  Washington  Irving,  by  his  nephew, 
Pierre  M.  Irving.  His  death  was  the  occasion  of  many 
affectionate  and  graceful  eulogies  and  addresses,  a  number 
of  which  were  gathered  into  Irvingiana :  a  Memorial  of 
Washington  Irving. 

Rip  Van  Winkle  is  from  Tlie  Slcetch  Book. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 

THE  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  purported  to  have  been 
written  by  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  who  was  a  humorous  in 
vention  of  Irving's,  and  whose  name  was  familiar  to  the  pub 
lic  as  the  author  of  A  History  of  New  York.  The  History 
was  published  in  1809,  but  it  was  ten  years  more  before 
the  first  number  of  The  Sketch  Book  of  Geoffrey  Crayon, 
Gent.,  was  published.  This  number,  which  contained  Rip 
Van  Winkle,  was,  like  succeeding  numbers,  written  by  Ir 
ving  in  England  and  sent  home  to  America  for  publication. 
He  laid  the  scene  of  the  story  in  the  Kaatskills,  but  he  drew 
upon  his  imagination  and  the  reports  of  others  for  the  scen 
ery,  not  visiting  the  spot  until  1833.  The  story  is  not  ab 
solutely  new  ;  the  fairy  tale  of  The  Sleeping  Beauty  in  the 
Wood  has  the  same  theme  ;  so  has  the  story  of  Epimenides 
of  Crete,  who  lived  in  the  sixth  or  seventh  century  before 
Christ.  He  was  said  to  have  fallen  asleep  in  a  cave  when 
a  boy,  and  to  have  awaked  at  the  end  of  fifty-seven  years, 
his  soul,  meanwhile,  having  been  growing  in  stature.  There 
is  the  legend  also  of  the  Seven  Sleepers  of  Ephesus,  Chris 
tian  martyrs  who  were  walled  into  a  cave  to  which  they  had 
fled  for  refuge,  and  there  were  miraculously  preserved  for 
two  centuries.  Among  the  stories  in  which  the  Harz  Moun 
tains  of  Germany  are  so  prolific  is  one  of  Peter  Klaus,  a 
goatherd  who  was  accosted  one  day  by  a  young  man  who 
silently  beckoned  him  to  follow,  and  led  him  to  a  secluded 
spot,  where  he  found  twelve  knights  playing,  voiceless,  at 
skittles.  He  saw  a  can  of  wine  which  was  very  fragrant, 
and,  drinking  of  it,  was  thrown  into  a  deep  sleep,  from 
which  he  did  not  wake  for  twenty  years.  The  story  gives 


94  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

incidents  of  his  awaking  and  of  the  changes  which  he  found 
in  the  village  to  which  he  returned.  This  story,  which  was 
published  with  others  in  1800,  may  very  likely  have  been 
the  immediate  suggestion  to  Irving,  who  has  taken  nearly 
the  same  framework.  The  humorous  additions  which  he 
has  made,  and  the  grace  with  which  he  has  invested  the 
tale,  have  caused  his  story  to  supplant  earlier  ones  in  the 
popular  mind,  so  that  Kip  Van  Winkle  has  passed  into 
familiar  speech,  and  allusions  to  him  are  clearly  understood 
by  thousands  who  have  never  read  Irving's  story.  The 
recent  dramatizing  of  the  story,  though  following  the  out 
line  only,  has  done  much  to  fix  the  conception  of  the  char 
acter.  The  story  appeals  very  directly  to  a  common  senti 
ment  of  curiosity  as  to  the  future,  which  is  not  far  removed 
from  what  some  have  regarded  as  an  instinct  of  the  human 
mind  pointing  to  personal  immortality.  The  name  Van 
Winkle  was  happily  chosen  by  Irving,  but  not  invented  by 
him.  The  printer  of  the  Sketch  Book,  for  one,  bore  the 
name.  The  name  Knickerbocker,  also,  is  among  the  Dutch 
names,  but  Irving's  use  of  it  has  made  it  representative.  In 
The  Author's  Apology,  which  he  prefixed  to  a  new  edition 
of  the  History  of  New  York,  he  says  :  "  I  find  its  very 
name  become  a  '  household  word,'  and  used  to  give  the 
home  stamp  to  everything  recommended  for  popular  accep 
tation,  such  as  Knickerbocker  societies  ;  Knickerbocker  in 
surance  companies  ;  Knickerbocker  steamboats  ;  Knicker 
bocker  omnibuses,  Knickerbocker  bread,  and  Knickerbocker 
ice  ;  and  .  .  .  New  Yorkers  of  Dutch  descant;  prHrng  them 
selves  upon  being  '  genuine  Knickerbocker^'  " 


I. 

RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 

A  POSTHUMOUS   WRITING   OP  DIEDRICH   KNICKERBOCKER. 

By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday. 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre.  CAXTWBIOHT.1 

THE  following  tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  late 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York,  who 
was  very  curious  in  the  Dutch  history  of  the  province,  and  the 
manners  of  the  descendants  from  its  primitive  settlers.  His  his 
torical  researches,  however,  did  not  lie  so  much  among  books 
as  among  men  ;  for  the  former  are  lamentably  scanty  on  his 
favorite  topics  ;  whereas  he  found  the  old  burghers,  and  still 
more  their  wives,  rich  in  that  legendary  lore  so  invaluable  to 
true  history.  Whenever,  therefore,  he  happened  upon  a  genuine 
Dutch  family,  snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed  farmhouse  under 
a  spreading  sycamore,  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  little  clasped  vol 
ume  of  black-letter,  and  studied  it  with  the  zeal  of  a  book-worm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the  province 
during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  published 
some  years  since.  There  have  been  various  opinions  as  to  the 
literary  character  of  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a 
whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief  merit  is  its  scrupulou... 
accuracy,  which  indeed  was  a  little  questioned  on  its  first  appear 
ance,  but  has  since  been  completely  established ;  and  it  is  now* 
admitted  into  all  historical  collections,  as  a  book  of  unquestion 
able  authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of  his 
work,  and  now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much  harm 

1  William  Cartwright,  1611-1643,  was  a  friend  and  disciple  of 
Ben  Jonson. 


96  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

to  his  memory  *  to  say  that  his  time  might  have  been  much  bet 
ter  employed  in  weightier  labors.  He,  however,  was  apt  to  ride 
his  hobby  his  own  way  ;  and  though  it  did  now  and  then  kick  up 
the  dust  a  little  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbors,  and  grieve  the  spirit 
of  some  friends,  for  whom  he  felt  the  truest  deference  and  affec 
tion  ;  yet  his  errors  and  follies  are  remembered  "  more  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger,"  and  it  begins  to  be  suspected  that  he  never  in 
tended  to  injure  or  offend.  But  however  his  memory  may  be 
appreciated  by  critics,  it  is  still  held  dear  by  many  folk,  whose 
good  opinion  is  worth  having  ;  particularly  by  certain  biscuit- 
bakers,  who  have  gone  so  far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on  their 
new-year  cakes  ; 2  and  have  thus  given  him  a  chance  for  immor 
tality,  almost  equal  to  the  being  stamped  on  a  Waterloo  Medal, 
or  a  Queen  Anne's  Farthing.8 

1  The  History  of  New  York  had  given  offence  to  many  old 
New  Yorkers  because  of  its  saucy  treatment  of  names  which 
were  held  in  veneration  as  those  of  founders  of  families,  and  its 
general  burlesque  of  Dutch  character.     Among  the  critics  was  a 
warm  friend  of  Irving,  Gulian  C.  Verplanck,  who  in  a  discourse 
before  the  New  York  Historical  Society  plainly  said :   "  It  is 
painful  to  see  a  mind,  as  admirable  for  its  exquisite  perception 
of  the  beautiful  as  it  is  for  its  quick  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  wast 
ing  the  richness  of  its  fancy  on  an  ungrateful  theme,  and  its 
exuberant  humor  in  a  coarse  caricature."    Irving  took  the  cen 
sure  good-naturedly,  and  as  he  read  Verplanck's  words  just  as 
he  was  finishing  the  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  he  gave  them  this 
playful  notice  in  the  introduction. 

2  An  oblong  seed-cake,  still  made  in  New  York  at  New  Year's 
time,  and  of  Dutch  origin. 

8  There  was  a  popular  story  that  only  three  farthings  were 
struck  in  Queen  Anne's  reign  ;  that  two  were  in  public  keeping, 
and  that  the  third  was  no  one  knew  where,  but  that  its  lucky 
finder  would  be  able  to  hold  it  at  an  enormous  price.  As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact  there  were  eight  coinings  of  farthings  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne,  and  numismatists  do  not  set  a  high  value  on  the 
piece. 


RIP   VAN  WINKLE.  97 

WHOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must 
remember  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  They  are  a  dis 
membered  branch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family, 
and  are  seen  away  to  the  west  of  the  river,  swelling 
up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording  it  over  the  surround 
ing  country.  Every  change  of  season,  every  change 
of  weather,  indeed,  every  hour  of  the  day,  produces 
some  change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these 
mountains,  and  they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good 
wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers.  When  the 
weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue 
and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear 
evening  sky ;  but  sometimes  when  the  rest  of  the  land 
scape  is  cloudless  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray 
vapors  about  their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of 
the  setting  sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of 
glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy 1  mountains,  the  voyager 
may  have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a 
village,  whose  shingle-roofs  gleam  among  the  trees, 
just  where  the  blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into 
the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little 
village  of  great  antiquity,  having  been  founded  by 
some  of  the  Dutch  colonists  in  the  early  time  of  the 
province,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the  government 
of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant,2  (may  he  rest  in  peace !) 
and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  the  original  set 
tlers  standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small  yellow 

1  A  light  touch  to  help  the  reader  into  a  proper  spirit  for  re 
ceiving  the  tale. 

2  Stuyvesant  was  governor  of  New  Netherlands  from  1647  to 
1664.     He  plays  an  important  part  in  Knickerbocker's  History  of 
New  York,  as  he  did  in  actual  life.     Until  quite  recently  a  pea* 
tree  was  shown  on  the  Bowery,  said  to  have  been  planted  by 
him. 


98  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed  windows 
and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 
(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn 
and  weather-beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since, 
while  the  country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain, 
a  simple,  good-natured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles 
who  figured  so  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  siege 
of  Fort  Christina.1  He  inherited,  however,  but  little 
of  the  martial  character  of  his  ancestors.  I  have 
observed  that  he  was  a  simple,  good-natured  man ;  he 
was,  moreover,  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an  obedient  hen 
pecked  husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance 
might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which  gained 
him  such  universal  popularity;  for  those  men  are 
most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and  conciliating  abroad, 
who  are  under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home. 
Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and  mal 
leable  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic  tribulation ;  and 
a  curtain  lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world 
for  teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering. 
A  termagant  wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  respects  be 
considered  a  tolerable  blessing,  and  if  so,  Rip  Van 
Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all 
the  good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the 
amiable  sex,  took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles ; 
and  never  failed,  whenever  they  talked  those  matters 

1  The  Van  Winkles  appear  in   the    illustrious  catalogue  of 
heroes  who  accompanied  Stuyvesant  to  Fort  Christina,  and  were 
"  Brimful  of  wrath  and  cabbage." 

See  History  of  New  York,  book  VI.  chap.  viii. 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  99 

over  in  their  evening  gossipings,  to  lay  all  the  blame 
on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  children  of  the  village, 
too,  would  shout  with  joy  whenever  he  approached. 
He  assisted  at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings, 
taught  them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told 
them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians. 
Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the  village,  he  was 
surrounded  by  a  troop  of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts, 
clambering  on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand  tricks 
on  him  with  impunity  ;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at 
him  throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Kip's  composition  was  an  insu 
perable  aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It 
could  not  be  from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  persever 
ance  ;  for  he  would  sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as 
long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day 
without  a  murmur,  even"  though  he  should  not  be  en 
couraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He  would  carry  a  fowl 
ing-piece  on  his  shoulder  for  hours  together,  trudging 
through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill  and  down 
dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He 
would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor,  even  in  the 
roughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country 
frolics  for  husking  Indian  corn,  or  building  stone- 
fences  ;  the  women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ 
him  to  run  their  errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd 
jobs  as  their  less  obliging  husbands  would  not  do  for 
them.  In  a  word,  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  any 
body's  business  but  his  own  ;  but  as  to  doing  family 
duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  im 
possible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his 
farm  •,  it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground 
in  the  whole  country;  everything  about  it  went  wrong, 


100  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

and  would  go  wrong,  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences 
were  continually  falling  to  pieces ;  his  cow  would  either 
go  astray  or  get  among  the  cabbages  ;  weeds  were  sure 
to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere  else  ;  the 
rain  always  made  a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had 
some  out-door  work  to  do ;  so  that  though  his  patri 
monial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under  his  manage 
ment,  acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more  left 
than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it 
was  the  worst-conditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if 
they  belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  be 
gotten  in  his  own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the 
habits,  with  the  old  clothes  of  his  father.  He  was 
generally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his  mother's 
heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast-off  galli 
gaskins,  which  he  had  much'  ado  to  hold  up  with  one 
hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in  bad  weather. , 

Kip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy 
mortals,  of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the 
world  easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can 
be  got  with  least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would  rather 
starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a  pound.  If  left  to 
himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life  away  in  perfect 
contentment ;  but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  in 
his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the 
ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his  family.  Morning,  noon, 
and  night  her  tongue  was  incessantly  going,  and  every 
thing  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  produce  a  torrent  of 
household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way  of  reply 
ing  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent 
use,  had  grown  into  a  habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders,  shook  his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said  no 
thing.  This,  however,  always  provoked  a  fresh  volley 


RIP   VAN  WINKLE.  101 

from  his  wife ;  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his 
forces,  and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house  —  the  only 
side  which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a  henpecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who 
was  as  much  henpecked  as  his  master ;  for  Dame  Van 
Winkle  regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and 
even  looked  upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause 
of  his  master's  going  so  often  astray.  True  it  is,  in 
all  points  of  spirit  befitting  an  honorable  dog,  he  was 
as  courageous  an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods  — 
but  what  courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and 
all-besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue  ?  The  mo 
ment  Wolf  entered  the  house  his  crest  fell,  his  tail 
drooped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  his  legs,  he 
sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a  side 
long  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the  least 
flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle  he  would  fly  to  the 
door  with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle 
as  years  of  matrimony  rolled  on ;  a  tart  temper  never 
mellows  with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged 
tool  that  grows  keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long 
while  he  used  to  console  himself,  when  driven  from 
home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the 
sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the 
village ;  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a 
small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  His 
Majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in 
the  shade  through  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talking 
listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy 
stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been  worth 
any  statesman's  money  to  have  heard  the  profound  dis 
cussions  that  sometimes  took  place,  when  by  chance  an 
old  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands  from  some  passing 


102  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

traveller.  How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  con 
tents,  as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the 
school-master,  a  dapper  learned  little  man,  who  was 
not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the 
dictionary ;  and  how  sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon 
public  events  some  months  after  they  had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  con 
trolled  by  Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village, 
and  landlord  of  the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he 
took  his  seat  from  morning  till  night,  just  moving  suf 
ficiently  to  avoid  the  sun  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a 
large  tree  ;  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the  hour  by 
his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is 
true  he  was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe 
incessantly.  His  adherents,  however  (for  every  great 
man  has  his  adherents),  perfectly  understood  him,  and 
knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions.  When  anything 
that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he  was  ob 
served  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to  send  forth 
short,  frequent  and  angry  puffs ;  but  when  pleased,  he 
would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and 
emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds ;  and  sometimes,  tak 
ing  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant 
vapor  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head 
in  token  of  perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at 
length  routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  sud 
denly  break  in  upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage 
and  call  the  members  all  to  naught ;  nor  was  that 
august  personage,  Nicholas  Vedder  himself,  sacred 
from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  virago,  who 
charged  him  outright  with  encouraging  her  husband  in 
habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair; 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  103 

and  his  only  alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of 
the  farm  and  clamor  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in 
hand  and  stroll  away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would 
sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share 
the  contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he 
sympathized  as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  "  Poor 
Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "  thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's 
life  of  it ;  but  never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou 
shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee !  "  Wolf 
would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  face, 
and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity  I  verily  believe  he  recipro 
cated  the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal 
day,  Rip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the 
highest  parts  of  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  He  was 
after  his  favorite  sport  of  squirrel  shooting,  and  the 
still  solitudes  had  echoed  and  reechoed  with  the  re 
ports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw 
himself,  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll,  cov 
ered  with  mountain  herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow 
of  a  precipice.  From  an  opening  between  the  trees 
he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  country  for  many  a 
mile  of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the 
lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent 
but  majestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  purple 
cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and  there 
sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in 
the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  moun 
tain  glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled 
with  fragments  from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely 
lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For 
some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene ;  evening  was 
gradually  advancing;  the  mountains  began  to  throw 


104  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

their  long  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys  ;  he  saw  that 
it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village, 
and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  en 
countering  the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from 
a  distance,  hallooing,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle !  Rip  Van 
Winkle ! "  He  looked  round,  but  could  see  nothing 
but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary  flight  across  the  moun 
tain.  He  thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived  him, 
and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard  the  same 
cry  ring  through  the  still  evening  air :  "  Rip  Van 
Winkle !  Rip  Van  Winkle !  "  —  at  the  same  time  Wolf 
bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked 
to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the 
glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing 
over  him ;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction, 
and  perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the 
rocks,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he 
carried  on  his  back.  He  was  surprised  to  see  any 
human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place ; 
but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood 
in  need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at 
the  singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was 
a  short,  square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair, 
and  a  grizzled  beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique 
Dutch  fashion :  a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the 
waist,  several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample 
volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the 
sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his 
shoulder  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and 
made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with 
the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this 
new  acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alao 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  105 

rity ;  and  mutually  relieving  one  another,  they  clam 
bered  up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a 
mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Kip  every  now 
and  then  heard  long  rolling  peals  like  distant  thunder, 
that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather 
cleft,  between  lofty  rocks,  toward  which  their  rugged 
path  conducted.  He  paused  for  a  moment,  but  sup 
posing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those  transient 
thunder-showers  which  often  take  place  in  mountain 
heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ravine, 
they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  sur 
rounded  by  perpendicular  precipices,  over  the  brinks 
of  which  impending  trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that 
you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the 
bright  evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time  Rip  and 
his  companion  had  labored  on  in  silence ;  for  though 
the  former  marvelled  greatly  what  could  be  the  object 
of  carrying  a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet 
there  was  something  strange  and  incomprehensible 
about  the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe  and  checked 
familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder 
presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre 
was  a  company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at 
ninepins.  They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish 
fashion  ;  some  wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with 
long  knives  in  their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enor 
mous  breeches  of  similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's. 
Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar;  one  had  a  large 
beard,  broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes ;  the  face  of 
another  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was 
surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a 
little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of  various 
shapes  and  colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be 


106  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

the  commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with 
a  weather-beaten  countenance ;  he  wore  a  laced  doub 
let,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and 
feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with 
roses  in  them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Rip  of  the 
figures  in  an  old  Flemish  painting  in  the  parlor  of 
Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village  parson,  which  had 
been  brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the 
settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that 
though  these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves, 
yet  they  maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mys 
terious  silence,  and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy 
party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing 
interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of 
the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  were  rolled,  echoed 
along  the  mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they 
suddenly  desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him 
with  such  fixed,  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  un 
couth,  lack-lustre  countenances,  that  his  heart  turned 
within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  together.  His  com 
panion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg  into  large 
flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  com 
pany.  He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling;  they 
quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then  re 
turned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided. 
He  even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to 
taste  the  beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of  the 
flavor  of  excellent  Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a 
thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the 
draught.  One  taste  provoked  another  ;  and  he  reiter 
ated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at  length  his 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  107 

senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head, 
his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes  —  it  was  a  bright,  sunny  morning. 
The  birds  were  hopping  and  twittering  among  the 
bushes,  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breast, 
ing  the  pure  mountain  breeze.  "  Surely,"  thought 
Rip,  "  I  have  not  slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled 
the  occurrences  before  he  fell  asleep.  The  strange 
man  with  a  keg  of  liquor  —  the  mountain  ravine  — 
the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks  —  the  woe-begone 
party  at  nine-pins  —  the  flagon  —  "  Oh  !  that  flagon ! 
that  wicked  flagon  !  "  thought  Rip  —  "  what  excuse 
shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the 
clean,  well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  fire 
lock  lying  by  him,  the  barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the 
lock  falling  off,  and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now 
suspected  that  the  grave  roisters  of  the  mountain  had 
put  a  trick  upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him  with  li 
quor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  dis 
appeared,  but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a 
squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him,  and 
shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain ;  the  echoes  repeated 
his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  even 
ing's  gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to 
demand  his  dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he 
found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his 
usual  activity.  "  These  mountain  beds  do  not  agree 
with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "  and  if  this  frolic  should  lay 
me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a 


108  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle."  With  some 
difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen ;  he  found  the 
gully  up  which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended 
the  preceding  evening ;  but  to  iiis  astonishment  a 
mountain  stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping 
from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling 
murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its 
sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through  thickets  of 
birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel,  and  sometimes 
tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grapevines  that 
twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and 
spread  a  kind  of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had 
opened  through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre  ;  but  no 
traces  of  such  opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented 
a  high,  impenetrable  wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came 
tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a 
broad,  deep  basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of  the  sur 
rounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought 
to  a  stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his 
dog ;  he  was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock 
of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree 
that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice ;  and  who,  secure  in 
their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the 
poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  the 
morning  was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for 
want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog 
and  gun  ;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife  ;  but  it  would 
not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  He  shook  his 
head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart 
full  of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  home 
ward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number  of 
people,  but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  sur* 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  109 

prised  him,  for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted 
with  every  one  in  the  country  round.  Their  dress, 
too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from  that  to  which  he 
was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal 
marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes 
upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The  con 
stant  recurrence  of  this  gesture  induced  Kip,  involun 
tarily,  to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  he 
found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long  ! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A 
troop  of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting 
after  him,  and  pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs, 
too,  not  one  of  which  he  recognized  for  an  old  ac 
quaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he  passed.  The  very 
village  was  altered  ;  it  was  larger  and  more  populous. 
There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen 
before,  and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts 
had  disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over  the  doors 
—  strange  faces  at  the  windows,  —  everything  was 
strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him ;  he  began  to 
doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him 
were  not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his  native  vil 
lage,  which  he  had  left  but  the  day  before.  There 
stood  the  Kaatskill  Mountains  —  there  ran  the  silver 
Hudson  at  a  distance  —  there  was  every  hill  and  dale 
precisely  as  it  had  always  been  —  Rip  was  sorely  per 
plexed  —  "  That  flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "  has 
addled  my  poor  head  sadly  !  " 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way 
to  his  own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent 
awe,  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice 
of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  He  found  the  house  gone  to 
decay  —  the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows  shattered, 
and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half-starved  dog  that 


110  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

looked  like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called 
him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth, 
and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed  — 
"My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "has  forgotten 
me!" 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame 
Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was 
empty,  forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned.  This  deso- 
lateness  overcame  all  his  connubial  fears  —  he  called 
loudly  for  his  wife  and  children  —  the  lonely  cham 
bers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and  then  again 
all  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  re 
sort,  the  village  inn  —  but  it,  too,  was  gone.  A  large, 
rickety  wooden  building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great 
gaping  windows,  some  of  them  broken  and  mended 
with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and  over  the  door  was 
painted,  "  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle." 
Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet 
little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall 
naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that-  looked  like 
a  red  night-cap,  and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on 
which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes 
—  all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  He 
recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of 
King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a 
peaceful  pipe  ;  but  even  this  was  singularly  metamor 
phosed.  The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue 
and  buff,  a  sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a 
sceptre,  the  head  was  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat, 
and  underneath  was  painted  in  large  characters,  GEN 
ERAL  WASHINGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door, 
but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  Ill 

the  people  seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bus 
tling,  disputatious  tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accus 
tomed  phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity.  He  looked  in 
vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his  broad 
face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds 
of  tobacco-smoke  instead  of  idle  speeches  ;  or  Van 
Bummel,  the  school-master,  doling  forth  the  contents 
of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a  lean, 
bilious-looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  hand 
bills,  was  haranguing  vehemently  about  rights  of  citi 
zens  —  elections  —  members  of  congress  —  liberty  — 
Bunker's  Hill  —  heroes  of  seventy-six  —  and  other 
words,  which  were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the 
bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard, 
his  rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army 
of  women  and  children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  tavern-politicians.  They  crowded 
round  him,  eying  him  from  head  to  foot  with  great 
curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and,  draw 
ing  him  partly  aside,  inquired  "  on  which  side  he 
voted  ?  "  Rip  started  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another 
short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm, 
and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  "  Whether 
he  was  Federal  or  Democrat  ?  "  Rip  was  equally  at 
a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question ;  when  a  knowing, 
self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat, 
made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them  to  the 
right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and  plant 
ing  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo, 
the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp 
hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  de 
manded  in  an  austere  tone,  "  what  brought  him  to  the 
election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his 


112  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

heels,  and  whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the 
village  ?  "  —  "  Alas !  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat 
dismayed,  "  I  am  a  poor  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the 
place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  king,  God  bless 
him ! " 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders  — 
"  A  tory !  a  tory  !  a  spy  !  a  refugee !  hustle  him  ! 
away  with  him !  "  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that 
the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored 
order;  and,  having  assumed  a  tenfold  austerity  of 
brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit  what 
he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking  ?  The 
poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm, 
but  merely  came  therein  search  of  some  of  his  neigh 
bors,  who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"  Well  —  who  are  they  ?  —  name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired, 
"  Where  's  Nicholas  Vedder  ?  " 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old 
man  replied,  in  a  thin,  piping  voice :  "  Nicholas  Ved 
der  !  why,  he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years ! 
There  was  a  wooden  tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that 
used  to  tell  all  about  him,  but  that 's  rotten  and  gone 
too." 

"  Where  's  Brom  Dutcher?  " 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of 
the  war ;  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of 
Stony  Point 1  —  others  say  he  was  drowned  in  a  squall 
at  the  foot  of  Antony's  Nose.2  I  don't  know  —  he 
never  came  back  again." 

1  On  the  Hudson.    The  place  is  famous  for  the  daring  assault 
made  by  Mad  Anthony  Wayne,  July  15,  1779. 

2  A  few  miles  above  Stony  Point  is  the  promontory  of  An 
tony's  Nose.     If  we  are  to  believe  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  it 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  113 

"  Where  's  Van  Bummel,  the  school-master  ?  " 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a  great  militia 
general,  and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Kip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad 
changes  in  his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself 
thus  alone  in  the  world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him 
too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous  lapses  of  time,  and 
of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand:  war  — 
Congress  —  Stony  Point;  he  had  no  courage  to  ask 
after  any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair, 
"  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle? " 

"  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  "  exclaimed  two  or  three, 
"  Oh,  to  be  sure !  that 's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  lean 
ing  against  the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of 
himself,  as  he  went  up  the  mountain :  apparently  as 
lazy,  and  certainly  as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was 
now  completely  confounded.  He  doubted  his  own 
identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself  or  another  man. 

was  named  after  Antony  Van  Corlear,  Stuyvesant's  trumpeter. 
"  It  must  be  known,  then,  that  the  nose  of  Antony  the  trum 
peter  was  of  a  very  lusty  size,  strutting  boldly  from  his  counte 
nance  like  a  mountain  of  Golconda.  .  .  .  Now  thus  it  happened, 
that  bright  and  early  in  the  morning  the  good  Antony,  having 
washed  his  burly  visage,  was  leaning  over  the  quarter  railing  of 
the  galley,  contemplating  it  in  the  glassy  wave  below.  Just  at 
this  moment  the  illustrious  sun,  breaking  in  all  his  splendor 
from  behind  a  high  bluff  of  the  highlands,  did  dart  one  of  his 
most  potent  beams  full  upon  the  refulgent  nose  of  the  sounder 
of  brass  —  the  reflection  of  which  shot  straightway  down,  hissing 
hot,  into  the  water  and  killed  a  mighty  sturgeon  that  was  sport 
ing  beside  the  vessel  !  .  .  .  When  this  astonishing  miracle  came 
to  be  made  known  to  Peter  Stuyvesant  he  ...  marvelled  ex 
ceedingly  ;  and  as  a  monument  thereof,  he  gave  the  name  of 
Antony's  Nose  to  a  stout  promontory  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
it  has  continued  to  be  called  Antony's  Nose  ever  since  that 
time."  History  of  New  York,  book  VI.  chap.  iv. 


114  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in  the 
cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his 
name? 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end ;  "  I  'm 
not  myself  —  I  'm  somebody  else — that 's  me  yonder 
—  no  —  that 's  somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes  —  I 
was  myself  last  night,  but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  moun 
tain,  and  they  've  changed  my  gun,  and  everything's 
changed,  and  I  'm  changed,  and  I  can't  tell  what 's  my 
name,  or  who  I  am !  " 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other, 
nod,  wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against 
their  foreheads.  There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about 
securing  the  gun,  and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from 
doing  mischief,  at  the  very  suggestion  of  which  the 
self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some 
precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh,  comely 
woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at 
the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in  her 
arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry. 
"  Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you  little  fool ;  the 
old  man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the 
air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened 
a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind.  "  What  is  your 
name,  my  good  woman  ?  "  asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"  And  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  man,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name, 
but  it 's  twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home 
with  his  gun,  and  never  has  been  heard  of  since,  — • 
his  dog  came  home  without  him ;  but  whether  he  shot 
himself,  or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians,  nobody 
can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask ;  and  he  put 
it  with  a  faltering  voice :  — 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  115 

"  Where  's  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since  ;  she 
broke  a  blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New  Eng 
land  peddler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort  at  least,  in  this  intel 
ligence.  The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no 
longer.  He  caught  his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his 
arms.  "  I  am  your  father !  "  cried  he  —  "  Young  Rip 
Van  Winkle  once  —  old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now  !  Does 
nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman  tottering  out 
from  among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and 
peering  under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed, 
"  Sure  enough  it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle  —  it  is  himself ! 
Welcome  home  again,  old  neighbor  —  Why,  where 
have  you  been  these  twenty  long  years  ?  " 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty 
years  had  been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neigh 
bors  stared  when  they  heard  it;  some  were  seen  to 
wink  at  each  other,  and  put  their  tongues  in  their 
cheeks  ;  and  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat, 
who  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned  to  the 
field,  screwed  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and 
shook  his  head  —  upon  which  there  was  a  general 
shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of 
old  Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advan 
cing  up  the  road.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  histo 
rian  of  that  name,1  who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest 
accounts  of  the  province.  Peter  was  the  most  ancient 
inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well  versed  in  all  the 
wonderful  events  and  traditions  of  the  neighborhood. 
He  recollected  Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his  story 
1  Adrian  Vanderdonk. 


116  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

in  the  most  satisfactory  manner.  He  assured  the 
company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down  from  his 
ancestor  the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  Mountains 
had  always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings.  That  it 
was  affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first 
discoverer  of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of 
vigil  there  every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the 
Half -moon ;  being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the 
scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon 
the  river  and  the  great  city  called  by  his  name. 
That  his  father  had  once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch 
dresses  playing  at  ninepins  in  a  hollow  of  the  moun 
tain  ;  and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  summer 
afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls  like  distant  peals  of 
thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up, 
and  returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the 
election.  Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with 
her ;  she  had  a  snug  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout 
cheery  farmer  for  a  husband,  whom  Rip  recollected 
for  one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon  his 
back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of 
himself,  seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was  employed 
to  work  on  the  farm ;  but  evinced  an  hereditary  dis 
position  to  attend  to  anything  else  but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits ;  he  soon 
found  many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather 
the  worse  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  time  ;  and  preferred 
making  friends  among  the  rising  generation,  with 
whom  he  soon  grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and.  being  arrived  at 
that  happy  age  when  a  man  can  be  idle  with  impu 
nity,  he  took  his  place  once  more  on  the  bench  at  the 
inn  door,  and  was  reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs 


RIP   VAN    WINKLE.  11T 

of  the  village,  and  a  chronicle  of  the  old  times  "  before 
the  war."  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  get  into 
the  regular  track  of  gossip,  or  could  be  made  to  com 
prehend  the  strange  events  that  had  taken  place  dur 
ing  his  torpor.  How  that  there  had  been  a  revolu 
tionary  war  —  that  the  country  had  thrown  off  the 
yoke  of  old  England  —  and  that,  instead  of  being  a 
subject  of  his  Majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now 
a  free  citizen  of  the  United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was 
no  politician  ;  the  changes  of  states  and  empires  made 
but  little  impression  on  him ;  but  there  was  one  spe 
cies  of  despotism  under  which  he  had  long  groaned, 
and  that  was  —  petticoat  government.  Happily  that 
was  at  an  end  ;  he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of 
matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out  whenever  he 
pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame  Van 
Winkle.  Whenever  her  name  was  mentioned,  how 
ever,  he  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
cast  up  his  eyes,  which  might  pass  either  for  an  ex 
pression  of  resignation  to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliv 
erance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  ar 
rived  at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at 
first,  to  vary  on  some  points  every  time  he  told  it, 
which  was,  doubtless,  owing  to  his  having  so  recently 
awaked.  It  at  last  settled  down  precisely  to  the  tale 
I  have  related,  and  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the 
neighborhood  but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some  always 
pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that 
Rip  had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was  one 
point  on  which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The  old 
Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally  gave 
it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day  they  never  hear  a 
thunder-storm  of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the  Kaats- 


118  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

kill,  but  they  say  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are 
at  their  game  of  ninepins  ;  and  it  is  a  common  wish 
of  all  henpecked  husbands  in  the  neighborhood,  when 
life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might  have 
a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  flagon. 

NOTE. 

The  foregoing  Tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  to 
Mr.  Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  superstition  about  the 
Emperor  Frederick  der  Rothbart,1  and  the  Kypphaiiser  moun 
tain  ;  the  subjoined  note,  however,  which  he  had  appended  to  the 
tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated  with  his  usual 
fidelity. 

"  The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many, 
but  nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity 
of  our  old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very  subject  to  mar 
vellous  events  and  appearances.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  many 
stranger  stories  than  this,  in  the  villages  along  the  Hudson  ;  all 
of  which  were  too  well  authenticated  to  admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have 
even  talked  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  when  last  I  saw 
him,  was  a  very  old  venerable  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and 
consistent  on  every  other  point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious 
person  could  refuse  to  take  this  into  the  bargain  ;  nay,  I  have 
seen  a  certificate  on  the  subject  taken  before  a  country  justice 
and  signed  with  a  cross,  in  the  justice's  own  handwriting.  The 
story  therefore,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt. 

"D.  K." 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a  memorandum-book 
of  Mr.  Knickerbocker  :  — 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been  a  re 
gion  full  of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode  of 
spirits,  who  influenced  the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or  clouds 

1  Frederick  I.  of  Germany,  1121-1190,  called  Barbarossa,  der 
Rothbart  (Redbeard  or  Rufus),  was  fabled  not  to  have  died  but 
to  have  gone  into  a  long  sleep,  from  which  he  would  awake 
when  Germany  should  need  him.  The  same  legend  was  told  by 
the  Danes  of  their  Holger. 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  119 

over  the  landscape,  and  sending  good  or  bad  hunting  seasons. 
They  were  ruled  by  an  old  squaw  spirit,  said  to  be  their  mother. 
She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak  of  the  Catskills,  and  had  charge 
of  the  doors  of  day  and  night  to  open  and  shut  them  at  the 
proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the  new  moons  in  the  skies,  and  cut 
up  the  old  ones  into  stars.  In  times  of  drought,  if  properly 
propitiated,  she  would  spin  light  summer  clouds  out  of  cobwebs 
and  morning  dew,  and  send  them  off  from  the  crest  of  the  moun 
tain,  flake  after  flake,  like  flakes  of  carded  cotton,  to  float  in  the 
air  ;  until,  dissolved  by  the  heat  of  the  sun,  they  would  fall  in 
gentle  showers,  causing  the  grass  to  spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen, 
and  the  corn  to  grow  an  inch  an  hour.  If  displeased,  however, 
she  would  brew  up  clouds  black  as  ink,  sitting  in  the  midst  of 
them  like  a  bottle-bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web  ;  and 
when  these  clouds  broke,  woe  beticle  the  valleys  ! 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of 
Manitou  or  Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the 
Catskill  Mountains,  and  took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreaking 
all  kinds  of  evils  and  vexations  upon  the  red  men.  Sometimes 
he  would  assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or  a  deer,  lead 
the  bewildered  hunter  a  weary  chase  through  tangled  forest  and 
among  ragged  rocks  ;  and  then  spring  off  with  a  loud  ho  !  ho  ! 
leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  a  beetling  precipice  or  raging 
torrent. 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It  is  a 
great  rock  or  cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and 
from  the  flowering  vines  which  clamber  about  it,  and  the  wild 
flowers  which  abound  in  its  neighborhood,  is  known  by  the  name 
of  the  Garden  Rock.  Near  the  foot  of  it  is  a  small  lake,  the 
haunt  of  the  solitary  bittern,  with  water-snakes  basking  in  the 
sun  on  the  leaves  of  the  pond-lilies  which  lie  on  the  surface. 
This  place  was  held  in  great  awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that 
the  boldest  hunter  would  not  pursue  his  game  within  its  pre 
cincts.  Once  upon  a  time,  however,  a  hunter,  who  had  lost  his 
way,  penetrated  to  the  Garden  Rock,  where  he  beheld  a  number 
of  gourds  placed  in  the  crotches  of  trees.  One  of  these  he  seized 
and  made  off  with  it,  but  in  the  hurry  of  his  retreat  he  let  it 
fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a  great  stream  gushed  forth,  which 
washed  him  away  and  swept  him  down  precipices,  where  he  was 
dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its  way  to  the  Hudson, 
and  continues  to  flow  to  the  present  day  ;  being  the  identical 
stream  known  by  the  name  of  the  Kaaters-kill. 


120  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

n. 

LITTLE  BRITAIN. 

What  I  write  is  most  true  ...  I  have  a  whole  booke  of  cases  lying  by  me  which 
if  I  should  sette  foorth,  some  grave  auntieuts  (within  the  hearing  of  Bow  bell) 
would  be  out  of  charity  with  me.  N  ASHE. 

IN  the  centre  of  the  great  city  of  London  lies  a 
small  neighborhood,  consisting  of  a  cluster  of  narrow 
streets  and  courts,  of  very  venerable  and  debilitated 
houses,  which  goes  by  the  name  of  LITTLE  BRITAIN. 
Christ  Church  School 1  and  St.  Bartholomew's  Hospi 
tal2  bound  it  on  the  west;  Smithfield3  and  Long 
Lane  on  the  north  ;  Aldersgate  Street,  like  an  arm  of 
the  sea,  divides  it  from  the  eastern  part  of  the  city  ; 
whilst  the  yawning  gulf  of  Bull-and-Mouth  Street  sep 
arates  it  from  Butcher  Lane,  and  the  regions  of  New 
gate.  Over  this  little  territory,  thus  bounded  and 
designated,  the  great  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  swelling 
above  the  intervening  houses  of  Paternoster  Row, 
Amen  Corner,  and  Ave  Maria  Lane,  looks  down  with 
an  air  of  motherly  protection. 

This  quarter  derives  its  appellation  from  having 
been,  in  ancient  times,  the  residence  of  the  Dukes  of 
Brittany.  As  London  increased,  however,  rank  and 
fashion  rolled  off  to  the  west,  and  trade,  creeping  on 

1  More  accurately  Christ's  Hospital,  popularly  known  as  The 
Blue  Coat  School,  an  old  and  famous  school  originally  intended 
as  a  home  for  foundlings  and  fatherless  children.     Charles  Lamb 
in  Essays  of  Elia  has  some  charming  papers,  Recollections  of 
Christ's  Hospital  and   Christ's  Hospital  Five  and   Thirty   Years 
Ago. 

2  The  earliest  institution  of  the  kind  in  London,  founder1  in 
1102. 

8  Famous  as  the  scene  of  Wat  Tyler's  death,  and  of  martyr 
doms  for  religion  under  Henry  VIII.,  Mary,  and  Elizabeth. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  121 

at  their  heels,  took  possession  of  their  deserted  abodes. 
For  some  time  Little  Britain  became  the  great  mart 
of  learning,  and  was  peopled  by  the  busy  and  prolific 
race  of  booksellers ;  these  also  gradually  deserted  it, 
and,  emigrating  beyond  the  great  strait  of  Newgate 
Street,  settled  down  in  Paternoster  Row  and  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard,  where  they  continue  to  increase  and  muL 
tiply  even  at  the  present  day. 

But  though  thus  falling  into  decline,  Little  Britain 
still  bears  traces  of  its  former  splendor.  There  are 
several  houses  ready  to  tumble  down,  the  fronts  of 
which  are  magnificently  enriched  with  old  oaken  carv 
ings  of  hideous  faces,  unknown  birds,  beasts,  and 
fishes ;  and  fruits  and  flowers  which  it  would  perplex 
a  naturalist  to  classify.  There  are  also,  in  Aldersgate 
Street,  certain  remains  of  what  were  once  spacious  and 
lordly  family  mansions,  but  which  have  in  latter  days 
been  subdivided  into  several  tenements.  Here  may 
often  be  found  the  family  of  a  petty  tradesman,  with 
its  trumpery  furniture,  burrowing  among  the  relics  of 
antiquated  finery,  in  great,  rambling,  time-stained 
apartments,  with  fretted  ceilings,  gilded  cornices,  and 
enormous  marble  fireplaces.  The  lanes  and  courts  also 
contain  many  smaller  houses,  not  on  so  grand  a  scale, 
but,  like  your  small  ancient  gentry,  sturdily  maintain 
ing  their  claims  to  equal  antiquity.  These  have  their 
gable  ends  to  the  street ;  great  bow-windows,  with 
diamond  panes  set  in  lead,  grotesque  carvings,  and 
low  arched  door- ways.1 

In  this  most  venerable  and  sheltered  little  nest  have 
I  passed  several  quiet  years  of  existence,  comfortably 

1  It  is  evident  that  the  author  of  this  interesting  communica 
tion  has  included  in  his  general  title  of  Little  Britain  many  of 
those  little  lanes  and  courts  that  belong  immediately  to  Cloth 
Fair.  —  Irving'1 's  Note. 


122  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

lodged  in  the  second  floor  of  one  of  the  smallest  but 
oldest  edifices.1  My  sitting-room  is  an  old  wainscoted 
chamber,  with  small  panels,  and  set  off  with  a  miscel 
laneous  array  of  furniture.  I  have  a  particular  re 
spect  for  three  or  four  high-backed  claw-footed  chairs,, 
covered  with  tarnished  brocade,  which  bear  the  marks 
of  having  seen  better  days,  and  have  doubtless  figured 
in  some  of  the  old  palaces  of  Little  Britain.  They 
seem  to  me  to  keep  together,  and  to  look  down  with 
sovereign  contempt  upon  their  leathern  -  bottomed 
neighbors :  as  I  have  seen  decayed  gentry  carry  a  high 
head  among  the  plebeian  society  with  which  they  were 
reduced  to  associate.  The  whole  front  of  my  sitting- 
room  is  taken  up  with  a  bow-window,  on  the  panes  of 
which  are  recorded  the  names  of  previous  occupants 
for  many  generations,  mingled  with  scraps  of  very  in 
different  gentlemanlike  poetry,  written  in  characters 
which  I  can  scarcely  decipher,  and  which  extol  the 
charms  of  many  a  beauty  of  Little  Britain  who  has 
long,  long  since  bloomed,  faded,  and  passed  away. 
As  I  am  an  idle  personage,  with  no  apparent  occu 
pation,  and  pay  my  bill  regularly  every  week,  I  am 
looked  upon  as  the  only  independent  gentleman  of  the 
neighborhood  ;  and,  being  curious  to  learn  the  internal 
state  of  a  community  so  apparently  shut  up  within  it 
self,  I  have  managed  to  work  my  way  into  all  the  con 
cerns  and  secrets  of  the  place. 

Little  Britain  may  truly  be  called  the  heart's  core 
of  the  city  ;  the  stronghold  of  true  John  Bullism.  It 
is  a  fragment  of  London  as  it  was  in  its  better  days, 
with  its  antiquated  folks  and  fashions.  Here  flourish 
in  great  preservation  many  of  the  holiday  games  and 
customs  of  yore.  The  inhabitants  most  religiously  eat 

1  It  must  be  remembered  that  it  is  Geoffrey  Crayon  who  is 
writing,  and  not  Washington  Irving. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  123 

pancakes  on  Shrove  Tuesday,  hot-cross-buns  on  Good 
Friday,  and  roast  goose  at  Michaelmas ;  they  send 
love-letters  on  Valentine's  Day,  burn  the  pope  on  the 
fifth  of  November,1  and  kiss  all  the  girls  under  the 
mistletoe  at  Christmas.  Roast  beef  and  plum  pudding 
are  also  held  in  superstitious  veneration,  and  port  and 
sherry  maintain  their  grounds  as  the  only  true  Eng 
lish  wines ;  all  others  being  considered  vile,  outlandish 
beverages. 

Little  Britain  has  its  long  catalogue  of  city  won 
ders,  which  its  inhabitants  consider  the  wonders  of 
the  world  :  such  as  the  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's,  which 
sours  all  the  beer  when  it  tolls  ;  the  figures  that  strike 
the  hours  at  St.  Dunstan's  clock ;  the  Monument ; 3 
the  lions  in  the  Tower ;  and  the  wooden  giants  3  in 
Guildhall.  They  still  believe  in  dreams  and  fortune- 
telling,  and  an  old  woman  that  lives  in  Bull-and-Mouth 
Street  makes  a  tolerable  subsistence  by  detecting 
stolen  goods,  and  promising  the  girls  good  husbands. 
They  are  apt  to  be  rendered  uncomfortable  by  comets 
and  eclipses  ;  and  if  a  dog  howls  dolefully  at  night,  it 
is  looked  upon  as  a  sure  sign  of  a  death  in  the  place. 
There  are  even  many  ghost  stories  current,  particu 
larly  concerning  the  old  mansion-houses ;  in  several 
of  which  it  is  said  strange  sights  are  sometimes  seen. 
Lords  and  ladies,  the  former  in  full  bottomed  wigs, 
hanging  sleeves,  and  swords,  the  latter  in  lappets, 
stays,  hoops  and  brocade,  have  been  seen  walking  up 
and  down  the  great  waste  chambers,  on  moonlight 

1  The  anniversary  of  the  discovery  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot, 
Pope's  Day,  as  it  was  called,  was  observed  in  New  England  un 
til  near  the  end  of  the  last  century. 

2  To  commemorate  the  Great  Fire  of  London,  September,  1666. 
1  Known  as  Gog  and  Magog. 


124  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

nights ;  and  are  supposed  to  be  the  shades  of  the  an 
cient  proprietors  in  their  court-dresses. 

Little  Britain  has  likewise  its  sages  and  great  men. 
One  of  the  most  important  of  the  former  is  a  tall,  dry 
old  gentleman,  of  the  name  of  Skryme,  who  keeps  a 
small  apothecary's  shop.  He  has  a  cadaverous  coun 
tenance,  full  of  cavities  and  projections ;  with  a  brown 
circle  round  each  eye,  like  a  pair  of  horned  spectaclesc 
He  is  much  thought  of  by  the  old  women,  who  con- 
sider  him  as  a  kind  of  conjuror,  because  he  has  two  or 
three  stuffed  alligators  hanging  up  in  his  shop,  and 
several  snakes  in  bottles.  He  is  a  great  reader  of 
almanacs  and  newspapers,  and  is  much  given  to  pore 
over  alarming  accounts  of  plots,  conspiracies,  fires, 
earthquakes,  and  volcanic  eruptions ;  which  last  phe 
nomena  he  considers  as  signs  of  the  times.  He  has 
always  some  dismal  tale  of  the  kind  to  deal  out  to 
his  customers,  with  their  doses ;  and  thus  at  the  same 
time  puts  both  soul  and  body  into  an  uproar.  He  is  a 
great  believer  in  omens  and  predictions  ;  and  has  the 
prophecies  of  Robert  Nixon l  and  Mother  Shipton  2  by 
heart.  No  man  can  make  so  much  out  of  an  eclipse, 
or  even  an  unusually  dark  day  ;  and  he  shook  the  tail 
of  the  last  comet  over  the  heads  of  his  customers  and 
disciples  until  they  were  nearly  frightened  out  of  their 
wits.  He  has  lately  got  hold  of  a  popular  legend  or 
prophecy,  on  which  he  has  been  unusually  eloquent. 
There  has  been  a  saying  current  among  the  ancient 

1  Known   as   the  Cheshire  Idiot,  a  contemporary  of  Mother 
Shipton,  and  reckoned  a  poet.     See  Memoirs  of  Extraordinary 
Popular  Delusions,  by  Charles  Mackay,  vol.  i.  pp.  196-201. 

2  A  woman  said  to  have  been  living  in  Yorkshire  in  the  time 
of  Henry  VII.,  and  to  have  had  prophetic  power.     Many  of  her 
prophecies,  in  rhyme,  are  in  the  mouths  of  half-educated  people 
in  England  to-day,  and  their  fulfilment  is  looked  for. 


'LITTLE  BRITAIN.  125 

sibyls,  who  treasure  up  these  things,  that  when  the 
grasshopper  on  the  top  of  the  Exchange  shook  hands 
with  the  dragon  on  the  top  of  Bow  Church  steeple, 
fearful  events  would  take  place.  This  strange  con 
junction,  it  seems,  has  as  strangely  come  to  pass. 
The  same  architect  has  been  engaged  lately  on  the 
repairs  of  the  cupola  of  the  Exchange,  and  the  steeple 
of  Bow  Church ;  and,  fearful  to  relate,  the  dragon 
and  the  grasshopper  actually  lie,  cheek  by  jole,  in  the 
yard  of  his  workshop. 

"  Others,"  as  Mr.  Skryme  is  accustomed  to  say, 
"may  go  star-gazing,  and  look  for  conjunctions  in 
the  heavens,  but  here  is  a  conjunction  on  the  earth, 
near  at  home,  and  under  our  own  eyes,  which  sur 
passes  all  the  signs  and  calculations  of  astrologers." 
Since  these  portentous  weathercocks  have  thus  laid 
their  heads  together,  wonderful  events  had  already  oc 
curred.  The  good  old  king,1  notwithstanding  that  he 
had  lived  eighty-two  years,  had  all  at  once  given  up 
the  ghost ;  another  king  had  mounted  the  throne ;  a 
royal  duke  had  died  suddenly,2  —  another,  in  France, 
had  been  murdered ; 8  there  had  been  radical  meetings 
in  all  parts  of  the  kingdom ;  the  bloody  scenes  at 
Manchester ; 4  the  great  plot  in  Cato  Street ; 5  and, 

1  George  III.,  who  died  January  29,  1820,  and  was  succeeded 
by  George  IV. 

2  The  Duke  of  Kent,  who  died  in  1820. 

8  The  Duke  of  Berri,  second  in  succession  to  the  crown,  who 
was  assassinated  in  1820. 

4  There  had  been  a  period  of  great  suffering  in  England  and  a 
chronic  discontent  at  the  existing  order  of  things,  when  in  Au 
gust,  1819,  an  immense  meeting,  in  opposition  to  the  govern 
ment,  was  held  at  Manchester.  Troops  were  on  the  ground,  and 
in  a  sudden  panic  the  magistrates  ordered  a  charge  which  had  a 
frightful  result. 

6  The  Cato  Street  Conspiracy  was  a  plot  to  murder  all  tha 


126  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

above  all,  the  queen  had  returned  to  England  ! l  All 
these  sinister  events  are  recounted  by  Mr.  Skryme, 
with  a  mysterious  look,  and  a  dismal  shake  of  the 
head  ;  and  being  taken  with  his  drugs,  and  associated 
in  the  minds  of  his  auditors  with  stuffed  sea-monsters, 
bottled  serpents,  and  his  own  visage,  which  is  a  title- 
page  of  tribulation,  they  have  spread  great  gloom 
through  the  minds  of  the  people  of  Little  Britain. 
They  shake  their  heads  whenever  they  go  by  Bow 
Church,  and  observe,  that  they  never  expected  any 
good  to  come  of  taking  down  that  steeple,  which  in 
old  times  told  nothing  but  glad  tidings,  as  the  history 
of  Whittington  and  his  Cat  bears  witness. 

The  rival  oracle  of  Little  Britain  is  a  substantial 
cheesemonger,  who  lives  in  a  fragment  of  one  of  the 
old  family  mansions,  and  is  as  magnificently  lodged  as 
a  round-bellied  mite  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  own 
Cheshires.  Indeed,  he  is  a  man  of  no  little  standing 
and  importance ;  and  his  renown  extends  through 
Huggin  Lane,  and  Lad  Lane,  and  even  unto  Alder- 
ministers  of  the  crown  at  a  cabinet  dinner  to  be  held  February 
23,  1820,  to  fire  the  barracks,  and  make  an  assault  upon  the 
Bank  of  England  and  the  Tower.  It  was  the  scheme  of  a  few 
desperate  men  in  the  time  of  great  popular  discontent  with  the 
government. 

1  Caroline,  queen  of  King  George  IV.  She  had  gone  to  the 
Continent  in  1814,  driven  there  by  the  persecution  of  her  hus 
band,  then  prince  regent.  She  returned  in  1820  to  vindicate 
her  rights,  and  all  England  was  divided  into  two  parties  upon 
the  question  of  her  innocency.  A  bill  was  introduced  into  Parlia 
ment  for  her  deposition  as  qneen  and  her  divorce  from  the  king, 
but  finally  failed.  Her  acquittal  was  followed  by  immense  pop 
ular  rejoicings,  but  her  own  imprudence  partly  cooled  the  public 
sympathy,  and  her  death,  in  August,  1820,  shortly  after  the 
king's  coronation,  came  in  season  to  save  her  from  further  dis 
aster. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  127 

/nanbury.  His  opinion  is  very  much  taken  in  affairs 
of  state,  having  read  the  Sunday  papers  for  the  last 
half  century,  together  with  the  "  Gentleman's  Maga 
zine,"  Rapin's  "  History  of  England,"  and  the  "  Naval 
Chronicle."  His  head  is  stored  with  invaluable  max 
ims  which  have  borne  the  test  of  time  and  use  for 
centuries.  It  is  his  firm  opinion  that  "  it  is  a  moral 
impossible,"  so  long  as  England  is  true  to  herself, 
that  anything  can  shake  her;  and  he  has  much  to  say 
on  the  subject  of  the  national  debt,  which,  somehow 
or  other,  he  proves  to  be  a  great  national  bulwark 
and  blessing.  He  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  life 
in  the  purlieus  of  Little  Britain,  until  of  late  years, 
when,  having  become  rich,  and  grown  into  the  dignity 
of  a  Sunday  cane,  he  begins  to  take  his  pleasure  and 
see  the  world.  He  has  therefore  made  several  excur 
sions  to  Hampstead,  Highgate,  and  other  neighboring 
towns,  where  he  has  passed  whole  afternoons  in  look 
ing  back  upon  the  metropolis  through  a  telescope,  and 
endeavoring  to  descry  the  steeple  of  St.  Bartholomew's. 
Not  a  stage-coachman  of  Bull-and- Mouth  Street  but 
touches  his  hat  as  he  passes ;  and  he  is  considered 
quite  a  patron  at  the  coach-office  of  the  Goose  and 
Gridiron,  St.  Paul's  churchyard.  His  family  have 
been  very  urgent  for  him  to  make  an  expedition  to 
Margate,  but  he  has  great  doubts  of  those  new  gim- 
cracks,  the  steamboats,  and  indeed  thinks  himself  too 
advanced  in  life  to  undertake  sea-voyages. 

Little  Britain  has  occasionally  its  factions  and  divi 
sions,  and  party  spirit  ran  very  high  at  one  time  in 
consequence  of  two  rival  "  Burial  Societies  "  being  set 
up  in  the  place.  One  held  its  meeting  at  the  Swan 
and  Horse  Shoe,1  and  was  patronized  by  the  cheese- 

1  It  is  just  possible  that  this  may  have  been  the  Swan  and 


128  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

monger ;  the  other  at  the  Cock  and  Crown,  under  the 
auspices  of  the  apothecary  ;  it  is  needless  to  say  that 
the  latter  was  the  most  flourishing.  I  have  passed  an 
evening  or  two  at  each,  and  have  acquired  much  valu 
able  information,  as  to  the  best  mode  of  being  buried, 
the  comparative  merits  of  churchyards,  together  with 
divers  hints  on  the  subject  of  patent-iron  coffins.  I 
have  heard  the  question  discussed  in  all  its  bearings 
as  to  the  legality  of  prohibiting  the  latter  on  account 
of  their  durability.  The  feuds  occasioned  by  these 
societies  have  happily  died  of  late ;  but  they  were 
for  a  long  time  prevailing  themes  of  controversy,  the 
people  of  Little  Britain  being  extremely  solicitous 
of  funereal  honors  and  of  lying  comfortably  in  their 
graves. 

Besides  these  two  funeral  societies  there  is  a  third 
of  quite  a  different  cast,  which  tends  to  throw  the 
sunshine  of  good-humor  over  the  whole  neighborhood. 
It  meets  once  a  week  at  a  little  old-fashioned  house, 
kept  by  a  jolly  publican  of  the  name  of  Wagstaff,  and 
bearing  for  insignia  a  resplendent  half-moon,  with  a 
most  seductive  bunch  of  grapes.  The  old  edifice  is 

Harp.  "  The  Mitre  was  a  celebrated  music-house  in  London 
House  Yard  at  the  northwest  end  of  St.  Paul's.  When  it  ceased 
to  be  a  music-house  the  succeeding  landlord,  to  ridicule  its  for 
mer  destiny,  chose  for  his  sign  a  goose  stroking  the  bars  of  a 
gridiron  with  his  foot  (the  Goose  and  Gridiron)  in  ridicule  of 
the  Swan  and  Harp,  a  common  sign  for  the  early  music-houses. 
Such  an  origin  does  the  Taller  give  ;  but  it  may  also  be  a  ver 
nacular  reading  of  the  coat  of  arms  of  the  Company  of  Musi 
cians,  suspended  probably  at  the  door  of  the  Mitre  wnen  it  was 
a  music-house.  These  arms  are,  a  swan  with  his  wings  expanded, 
within  a  double  tressure,  counter,  flory,  argent.  This  double 
tressure  might  have  suggested  a  gridiron  to  unsophisticated 
passers-by."  —  The  History  of  Signboards,  by  Jacob  Larwood 
and  John  Camden  Hotten,  pp.  445,  446. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  129 

covered  with  inscriptions  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  thirsty 
wayfarer,  such  as  "  Truman,  Hanbury,  and  Co.'s  En 
tire,"  "  Wine,  Rum,  and  Brandy  Vaults,"  "  Old  Tom, 
Rum  and  Compounds,  etc."  This  indeed  has  been  a 
temple  of  Bacchus  and  Momus  from  time  immemorial. 
It  has  always  been  in  the  family  of  the  Wagstaffs,  so 
that  its  history  is  tolerably  preserved  by  the  present 
landlord.  It  was  much  frequented  by  the  gallants 
and  cavalieros  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  was 
looked  into  now  and  then  by  the  wits  of  Charles  the 
Second's  day.  But  what  Wagstaff  principally  prides 
himself  upon  is,  that  Henry  the  Eighth,  in  one  of  his 
nocturnal  rambles,  broke  the  head  of  one  of  his  ances 
tors  with  his  famous  walking-staff.  This,  however,  is 
considered  as  a  rather  dubious  and  vainglorious  boast 
of  the  landlord. 

The  club  which  now  holds  its  weekly  sessions  here 
goes  by  the  name  of  "  The  Roaring  Lads  of  Little 
Britain."  They  abound  in  old  catches,  glees,  and 
choice  stories,  that  are  traditional  in  the  place,  and 
not  to  be  met  with  in  any  other  part  of  the  metropolis. 
There  is  a  madcap  undertaker  who  is  inimitable  at  a 
merry  song ;  but  the  life  of  the  club,  and  indeed  the 
prime  wit  of  Little  Britain,  is  bully  "Wagstaff  himself. 
His  ancestors  were  all  wags  before  him,  and  he  has 
inherited  with  the  inn  a  large  stock  of  songs  and  jokes, 
which  go  with  it  from  generation  to  generation  as  heir 
looms.  He  is  a  dapper  little  fellow,  with  bandy  legs 
and  pot  belly,  a  red  face,  with  a  moist,  merry  eye,  and  a 
little  shock  of  gray  hair  behind.  At  the  opening  of 
every  club  night  he  is  called  in  to  sing  his  "  Confes 
sion  of  Faith,"  which  is  the  famous  old  drinking  trowl 
from  "  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle."  1  He  sings  it,  to 

1  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle  is  the  name  of  a  dramatic  piece  by 


130  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

be  sure,  with  many  variations,  as  he  received  it  from 
his  father's  lips  ;  for  it  has  been  a  standing  favorite 
at  the  Half-Moon  and  Bunch  of  Grapes  ever  since  it 
was  written :  nay,  he  affirms  that  his  predecessors 
have  often  had  the  honor  of  singing  it  before  the  no 
bility  and  gentry  at  Christmas  mummeries,  when  Lit- 
tie  Britain  was  in  all  its  glory.1 

John  Still,  afterward  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells,  said  to  be  the 
second  English  comedy  in  point  of  time.  It  was  written  about 
the  time  of  Shakespeare's  birth,  and  turns  on  the  rustic  adven 
tures  of  Gammer  Gurton,  who  lost  her  needle,  —  a  very  precious 
piece  of  property  in  those  days,  —  and  found  it  finally  in  the 
breeches  of  her  man  Hodge,  where  she  had  left  it  when  at  her 
work. 

1  As  mine  host  of  the  Half-Moon's  Confession  of  Faith  may 
not  be  familiar  to  the  majority  of  readers,  and  as  it  is  a  speci 
men  of  the  current  songs  of  Little  Britain,  I  subjoin  it  in  its 
original  orthography.  I  would  observe,  that  the  whole  club  al 
ways  join  in  the  chorus  with  a  fearful  thumping  on  the  table 
and  clattering  of  pewter  pots.  —  W.  I. 

"  I  cannot  eate  but  lytle  meate, 

My  stomacke  is  not  good, 
But  sure  I  thinke  that  I  can  drinke 

With  him  that  weares  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  nothing  am  a  colde, 
I  stuff  my  skyn  so  full  within, 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorus.     Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare, 
Booth  f  oote  and  hand  go  colde, 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  ynoughe 
Whether  it  be  new  or  olde. 

"  I  have  no  rost,  but  a  nut  brawne  toste, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  f  yre ; 
A  little  breade  shall  do  me  steade, 

Much  breade  I  not  desyre. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  nor  winde,  I  trowe, 

Can  hurte  mee,  if  I  wolde, 
I  am  so  wrapt  and  throwly  lapt 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorus.     Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

"  And  Tyb  my  wife,  that,  as  her  lyfe, 
Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seeke, 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  131 

It  would  do  one's  heart  good  to  hear,  on  a  club 
night,  the  shouts  of  merriment,  the  snatches  of  song, 
and  now  and  then  the  choral  bursts  of  half  a  dozen 
discordant  voices,  which  issue  from  this  jovial  man 
sion.  At  such  times  the  street  is  lined  with  listeners, 
who  enjoy  a  delight  equal  to  that  of  gazing  into  a 
confectioner's  window,  or  snuffing  up  the  steams  of  a 
cook shop. 

There  are  two  annual  events  which  produce  great 
stir  and  sensation  in  Little  Britain;  these  are  St. 
Bartholomew's  Fair,1  and  the  Lord  Mayor's  Day. 
During  the  time  of  the  fair,  which  is  held  in  the 
adjoining  regions  of  Smithfield,  there  is  nothing  going 
on  but  gossiping  and  gadding  about.  The  late  quiet 
streets  of  Little  Britain  are  overrun  with  an  irruption 
of  strange  figures  and  faces ;  every  tavern  is  a  scene 
of  rout  and  revel.  The  fiddle  and  the  song  are  heard 

Full  oft  drynkes  shee,  tyll  ye  may  see, 

The  teares  run  downe  her  cheeke. 
Then  doth  she  trowle  to  me  the  bowle, 

Even  as  a  mault-worme  sholde, 
Aiid  sayth,  sweete  harte,  I  took  my  parte 

Of  this  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorus.    Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

"  Now  let  them  drynke,  tyll  they  nod  and  winke 

Even  as  goode  fellowes  sholde  doe, 
They  shall  not  mysse  to  have  the  blisse, 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to ; 
And  all  poore  soules  that  have  scowred  bowles 

Or  have  them  lustily  trolde, 
God  save  the  lyves  of  them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  be  yonge  or  olde. 
Chorus.     Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,"  etc. 

1  A  famous  annual  fair,  so  called  because  it  was  kept  at  Bar 
tholomew  Tide  (St.  Bartholomew's  Day  is  August  24th),  and 
held  within  the  precinct  of  St.  Bartholomew  in  Smithfield.  It 
was  for  several  centuries  the  great  Cloth  Fair  of  England.  It 
became  afterward  a  kind  of  Carnival  and  finally,  degenerating 
into  a  public  nuisance,  died  out  of  public  notice. 


132  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

from  the  tap-room,  morning,  noon,  and  night ;  and  at 
each  window  may  be  seen  some  group  of  boon  com 
panions,  with  half-shut  eyes,  hats  on  one  side,  pipe  in 
mouth,  and  tankard  in  hand,  fondling,  and  prosing, 
and  singing  maudlin  songs  over  their  liquor.  Even 
the  sober  decorum  of  private  families,  which  I  must 
say  is  rigidly  kept  up  at  other  times  among  my  neigh 
bors,  is  no  proof  against  this  Saturnalia.  There  is 
no  such  thing  as  keeping  maid-servants  within  doors. 
Their  brains  are  absolutely  set  madding  with  Punch 
and  the  Puppet  Show;  the  Flying  Horses;  Signior 
Polito  ; l  the  Fire-Eater ;  the  celebrated  Mr.  Paap  ; 
and  the  Irish  Giant.  The  children,  too,  lavish  all 
their  holiday  money  in  toys  and  gilt  gingerbread,  and 
fill  the  house  with  the  Lilliputian  din  of  drums,  trum 
pets,  and  penny  whistles. 

But  the  Lord  Mayor's  Day  2  is  the  great  anniver 
sary.  The  Lord  Mayor  is  looked  up  to  by  the  inhabi 
tants  of  Little  Britain  as  the  greatest  potentate  upon 
earth ;  his  gilt  coach  with  six  horses  as  the  summit 
of  human  splendor ;  and  his  procession,  with  all  the 
Sheriffs  and  Aldermen  in  his  train,  as  the  grandest  of 
earthly  pageants.  How  they  exult  in  the  idea  that 
the  King  himself  dare  not  enter  the  city  without  first 
knocking  at  the  gate  of  Temple  Bar,  and  asking  per 
mission  of  the  Lord  Mayor :  for  if  he  did,  heaven  and 
earth!  there  is  no  knowing  what  might  be  the  con 
sequence.  The  man  in  armor,  who  rides  before  the 

1  The  showman  of  a  menagerie  of  that  day. 

2  On  the  9th  of  November  each  year  the  mayor  of  London  goes 
up  to  Westminster  to  be  sworn  into  office.     The  pageant  was 
once  a  striking  and  brilliant  one,  when  it  was  significant  of  the 
political  importance  of  the  city  of  London.     It  is  still  kept  up, 
but  is  a  mere  mockery  of  its  old  splendor. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  133 

Lord  Mayor,  and  is  the  city  champion,  has  orders  to 
cut  down  everybody  that  offends  against  the  dignity  of 
the  city ;  and  then  there  is  the  little  man  with  a  velvet 
porringer  on  his  head,  who  sits  at  the  window  of  the 
state-coach,  and  holds  the  city  sword,  as  long  as  a  pike 
staff —  Odd's  blood!  If  he  once  draws  that  sword, 
Majesty  itself  is  not  safe ! 

Under  the  protection  of  this  mighty  potentate,  there 
fore,  the  good  people  of  Little  Britain  sleep  in  peace. 
Temple  Bar  is  an  effectual  barrier  against  all  interior 
foes  ;  and  as  to  foreign  invasion,  the  Lord  Mayor  has 
but  to  throw  himself  into  the  Tower,  call  in  the  train 
bands,  and  put  the  standing  army  of  Beef-eaters 1 
under  arms,  and  he  may  bid  defiance  to  the  world ! 

Thus  wrapped  up  in  its  own  concerns,  its  own  habits, 
and  its  own  opinions,  Little  Britain  has  long  flourished 
as  a  sound  heart  to  this  great  fungous  metropolis.  I 
have  pleased  myself  with  considering  it  as  a  chosen 
spot,  where  the  principles  of  sturdy  John  Bullism 
were  garnered  up,  like  seed  corn,  to  renew  the  national 
character,  when  it  had  run  to  waste  and  degeneracy. 
I  have  rejoiced  also  in  the  general  spirit  of  harmony 
that  prevailed  throughout  it ;  for  though  there  might 
now  and  then  be  a  few  clashes  of  opinion  between  the 
adherents  of  the  cheesemonger  and  the  apothecary, 
and  an  occasional  feud  between  the  burial  societies,  yet 
these  were  but  transient  clouds,  and  soon  passed  away. 
The  neighbors  met  with  good-will,  parted  with  a  shake 
of  the  hand,  and  never  abused  each  other  except 
behind  their  backs. 

1  The  yeomen  of  the  Royal  Guard  who  are  attached  to  the  ser 
vice  of  the  Tower  are  popularly  called  Beef-eaters,  a  corruption, 
we  are  told,  of  buffetiers,  that  is,  personal  attendants  of  the  sov 
ereign,  who  on  high  festivals  were  ranged  near  the  royal  side 
board  or  buffet. 


134  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

I  could  give  rare  descriptions  of  snug  junketing 
parties  at  which  I  have  been  present;  where  we 
played  at  All-Fours,  Pope-Joan,  Tom-come-tickle-me, 
and  other  choice  old  games ;  and  where  we  sometimes 
had  a  good  old  English  country  dance  to  the  tune 
of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.1  Once  a  year,  also,  the 
neighbors  would  gather  together,  and  go  on  a  gypsy 
party  to  Epping  Forest.2  It  would  have  done  any 
man's  heart  good  to  see  the  merriment  that  took  place 
here  as  we  banqueted  on  the  grass  under  the  trees. 
How  we  made  the  woods  ring  with  bursts  of  laughter 
at  the  songs  of  little  Wagstaff  and  the  merry  under 
taker  !  After  dinner,  too,  the  young  folks  would  play 
at  blind-man's-buff  and  hide-and-seek;  and  it  was 
amusing  to  see  them  tangled  among  the  briers,  and  to 
hear  a  fine  romping  girl  now  and  then  squeak  from 
among  the  bushes.  The  elder  folks  would  gather 
round  the  cheesemonger  and  the  apothecary  to  hear 
them  talk  politics ;  for  they  generally  brought  out  a 
newspaper  in  their  pockets,  to  pass  away  time  in  the 
country.  They  would  now  and  then,  to  be  sure,  get 
a  little  warm  in  argument;  but  their  disputes  were 
always  adjusted  by  reference  to  a  worthy  old  umbrella- 
maker,  in  a  double  chin,  who,  never  exactly  compre 
hending  the  subject,  managed  somehow  or  other  to 
decide  in  favor  of  both  parties. 

All  empires,  however,  says  some  philosopher  or  his- 

1  In  the  time  of  Richard  I.  there  was  a  Sir  Roger  of  Calverley, 
after  whom  a  tune  was  named  which  was  long  the  air  of  a  coun 
try  dance,  which  by  custom  was  invariably  made  the  conclusion 
of  balls.  The  name  underwent  the  slight  change  into  the  form 
which  it  held  in  Addison's  time,  and  he  and  Steele  at  Swift's 
suggestion  used  it  as  the  name  of  the  knight  whose  character  and 
fortune  constitute  the  most  charming  portion  of  The  Spectator. 

8  A  famous  royal  preserve,  sixteen  miles  from  London. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  135 

torian,  are  doomed  to  changes  and  revolutions.  Lux 
ury  and  innovation  creep  in  ;  factions  arise  ;  and  fam 
ilies  now  and  then  spring-  up,  whose  ambition  and  in 
trigues  throw  the  whole  system  into  confusion.  Thus 
in  latter  days  has  the  tranquillity  of  Little  Britain 
been  grievously  disturbed,  and  its  golden  simplicity 
of  manners  threatened  with  total  subversion  by  the 
aspiring  family  of  a  retired  butcher. 

The  family  of  the  Lambs  had  long  been  among  the 
most  thriving  and  popular  in  the  neighborhood ;  the 
Miss  Lambs  were  the  belles  of  Little  Britain,  and  ev 
erybody  was  pleased  when  Old  Lamb  had  made  money 
enough  to  shut  up  shop,  and  put  his  name  on  a  brass 
plate  on  his  door.  In  an  evil  hour,  however,  one  of 
the  Miss  Lambs  had  the  honor  of  being  a  lady  in  at 
tendance  on  the  Lady  Mayoress,  at  her  grand  annual 
ball,  on  which  occasion  she  wore  three  towering  ostrich 
feathers  on  her  head.  The  family  never  got  over  it ; 
they  were  immediately  smitten  with  a  passion  for  high 
life  ;  set  up  a  one-horse  carriage,  put  a  bit  of  gold  lace 
round  the  errand  boy's  hat,  and  have  been  the  talk 
and  detestation  of  the  whole  neighborhood  ever  since. 
They  could  no  longer  be  induced  to  play  at  Pope-Joan 
or  blind-man's-buff ;  they  could  endure  no  dances  but 
quadrilles,  which  nobody  had  ever  heard  of  in  Little 
Britain  ;  and  they  took  to  reading  novels,  talking  bad 
French,  and  playing  upon  the  piano.  Their  brother, 
too,  who  had  been  articled  to  an  attorney,  set  up  for  a 
dandy  and  a  critic,  characters  hitherto  unknown  in 
these  parts ;  and  he  confounded  the  worthy  folks  ex 
ceedingly  by  talking  about  Kean,1  the  opera,  and  the 
*'  Edinburgh  Review." 

1  Edmund  Kean,  a  celebrated  English  tragedian,  who  died  in 
1833. 


136  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

What  was  still  worse,  the  Lambs  gave  a  grand  ball, 
to  which  they  neglected  to  invite  any  of  their  old 
neighbors  ;  but  they  had  a  great  deal  of  genteel  com 
pany  from  Theobald's  Road,  Red-Lion  Square,  and 
other  parts  towards  the  west.  There  were  several 
beaux  of  their  brother's  acquaintance  from  Gray's  Inn 
Lane  and  Hatton  Garden  ;  and  not  less  than  three  Al 
dermen's  ladies  with  their  daughters.  This  was  not 
to  be  forgotten  or  forgiven.  All  Little  Britain  was  in 
an  uproar  with  the  smacking  of  whips,  the  lashing  of 
miserable  horses,  and  the  rattling  and  the  jingling 
of  hackney  coaches.  The  gossips  of  the  neighbor 
hood  might  be  seen  popping  their  nightcaps  out  at 
every  window,  watching  the  crazy  vehicles  rumble 
by ;  and  there  was  a  knot  of  virulent  old  cronies,  that 
kept  a  lookout  from  a  house  just  opposite  the  retired 
butcher's,  and  scanned  and  criticised  every  one  that 
knocked  at  the  door. 

This  dance  was  a  cause  of  almost  open  war,  and  the 
whole  neighborhood  declared  they  would  have  nothing 
more  to  say  to  the  Lambs.  It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Lamb, 
when  she  had  no  engagements  with  her  quality  ac 
quaintance,  would  give  little  humdrum  tea-junketings 
to  some  of  her  old  cronies,  "  quite,"  as  she  would  say, 
"  in  a  friendly  way ;  "  and  it  is  equally  true  that  her 
invitations  were  always  accepted,  in  spite  of  all  pre 
vious  vows  to  the  contrary.  Nay,  the  good  ladies 
would  sit  and  be  delighted  with  the  music  of  the  Miss 
Lambs,  who  would  condescend  to  strum  an  Irish  mel 
ody  for  them  on  the  piano ;  and  they  would  listen  with 
wonderful  interest  to  Mrs.  Lamb's  anecdotes  of  Alder 
man  Plunket's  family,  of  Portsokenward,  and  the 
Miss  Timberlakes,  the  rich  heiresses  of  Crutched- 
Friars  ;  but  then  they  relieved  their  consciences,  and 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  137 

averted  the  reproaches  of  their  confederates,  by  can 
vassing  at  the  next  gossiping  convocation  everything 
that  had  passed,  and  pulling  the  Lambs  and  their 
rout  all  to  pieces.- 

The  only  one  of  the  family  that  could  not  be  made 
fashionable  was  the  retired  butcher  himself.  Honest 
Lamb,  in  spite  of  the  meekness  of  his  name,  was  a  ,, 
rough,  hearty  old  fellow,  with  the  voice  of  a  lion,  a  head  k* 
of  black  hair  like  a  shoe-brush,  and  a  broad  face  mot-  < 
tied  like  his  own  beef.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  daugh 
ters  always  spoke  of  him  as  "  the  old  gentleman,"  ad 
dressed  him  as  "papa,"  in  tones  of  infinite  softness, 
and  endeavored  to  coax  him  into  a  dressing-gown  and 
slippers,  and  other  gentlemanly  habits.  Do  what  they 
might,  there  was  no  keeping  down  the  butcher.  His 
sturdy  nature  would  break  through  all  their  glozings. 
He  had  a  hearty  vulgar  good-humor  that  was  irrepres 
sible.  His  very  jokes  made  his  sensitive  daughters 
shudder  ;  and  he  persisted  in  wearing  his  blue  cotton 
coat  of  a  morning,  dining  at  two  o'clock,  and  having  a 
"  bit  of  sausage  with  his  tea." 

He  was  doomed,  however,  to  share  the  unpopularity 
of  his  family.  He  found  his  old  comrades  gradually 
growing  cold  and  civil  to  him  ;  no  longer  laughing  at 
his  jokes ;  and  now  and  then  throwing  out  a  fling  at 
"  some  people,"  and  a  hint  about  "  quality  binding." 
This  both  nettled  and  perplexed  the  honest  butcher  ; 
and  his  wife  and  daughters,  with  the  consummate  pol 
icy  of  the  shrewder  sex,  taking  advantage  of  the  cir 
cumstance,  at  length  prevailed  upon  him  to  give  up 
his  afternoon's  pipe  and  tankard  at  WagstafFs ;  to  sit 
after  dinner  by  himself,  and  take  his  pint  of  port  —  a 
liquor  he  detested  —  and  to  nod  in  his  chair  in  soli 
tary  and  dismal  gentility. 


138  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

The  Miss  Lambs  might  now  be  seen  flaunting  along 
the  streets  in  French  bonnets,  with  unknown  beaux  ; 
and  talking  and  laughing  so  loud  that  it  distressed 
the  nerves  of  every  good  lady  within  hearing.  They 
even  went  so  far  as  to  attempt  patronage,  and  actually 
induced  a  French  dancing-master  to  set  up  in  the 
neighborhood ;  but  the  worthy  folks  of  Little  Britain 
took  fire  at  it,  and  did  so  persecute  the  poor  Gaul  that 
he  was  fain  to  pack  up  fiddle  and  dancing-pumps,  and 
decamp  with  such  precipitation  that  he  absolutely  for 
got  to  pay  for  his  lodgings. 

I  had  flattered  myself,  at  first,  with  the  idea  that 
all  this  fiery  indignation  on  the  part  of  the  community 
was  merely  the  overflowing  of  their  zeal  for  good  old 
English  manners,  and  their  horror  of  innovation  ;  and 
I  applauded  the  silent  contempt  they  were  so  vocif 
erous  in  expressing,  for  upstart  pride,  French  fashions, 
and  the  Miss  Lambs.  But  I  grieve  to  say  that  I  soon 
perceived  the  infection  had  taken  hold ;  and  that  my 
neighbors,  after  condemning,  were  beginning  to  follow 
their  example.  I  overheard  my  landlady  importuning 
her  husband  to  let  their  daughters  have  one  quarter 
at  French  and  music,  and  that  they  might  take  a  few 
lessons  in  quadrille.  I  even  saw,  in  the  course  of  a 
few  Sundays,  no  less  than  five  French  bonnets,  pre 
cisely  like  those  of  the  Miss  Lambs,  parading  about 
Little  Britain. 

I  still  had  my  hopes  that  all  this  folly  would  grad 
ually  die  away ;  that  the  Lambs  might  move  out  of 
the  neighborhood  ;  might  die,  or  might  run  away  with 
attorneys'  apprentices ;  and  that  quiet  and  simplicity 
might  be  again  restored  to  the  community.  But  un 
luckily  a  rival  power  arose.  An  opulent  oilman  died, 
and  left  a  widow  with  a  large  jointure  and  a  family 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  139 

of  buxom  daughters.  The  young  ladies  had  long  been 
repining  in  secret  at  the  parsimony  of  a  prudent  father, 
which  kept  down  all  their  elegant  aspirings.  Their 
ambition,  being  now  no  longer  restrained,  broke  out 
into  a  blaze,  and  they  openly  took  the  field  against  the 
family  of  the  butcher.  It  is  true  that  the  Lambs,  hav 
ing  had  the  first  start,  had  naturally  an  advantage  of 
them  in  the  fashionable  career.  They  could  speak  a 
little  bad  French,  play  the  piano,  dance  quadrilles,  and 
had  formed  high  acquaintances  ;  but  the  Trotters  were 
not  to  be  distanced.  When  the  Lambs  appeared  with 
two  feathers  in  their  hats,  the  Miss  Trotters  mounted 
four,  and  of  twice  as  fine  colors.  If  the  Lambs  gave  a 
dance,  the  Trotters  were  sure  not  to  be  behindhand : 
and  though  they  might  not  boast  of  as  good  company, 
yet  they  had  double  the  number,  and  were  twice  as 
merry. 

The  whole  community  has  at  length  divided  itself 
into  fashionable  factions,  under  the  banners  of  these 
two  families.  The  old  games  of  Pope-Joan  and  Tom- 
come-tickle-me  are  entirely  discarded  ;  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  getting  up  an  honest  country  dance  ;  and  on 
my  attempting  to  kiss  a  young  lady  under  the  mistle 
toe  last  Christmas,  I  was  indignantly  repulsed  ;  the 
Miss  Lambs  having  pronounced  it  "  shocking  vulgar." 
Bitter  rivalry  has  also  broken  out  as  to  the  most  fash 
ionable  part  of  Little  Britain  ;  the  Lambs  standing 
up  for  the  dignity  of  Cross-Keys  Square,  and  the  Trot 
ters  for  the  vicinity  of  St.  Bartholomew's. 

Thus  is  this  little  territory  torn  by  factions  and  in 
ternal  dissensions,  like  the  great  empire  whose  name 
it  bears ;  and  what  will  be  the  result  would  puzzle 
the  apothecary  himself,  with  all  his  talent  at  prog 
nostics,  to  determine ;  though  I  apprehend  that  it 


140  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

will  terminate  in  the  total  downfall  of  genuine  John 
Bullism. 

The  immediate  effects  are  extremely  unpleasant  to 
me.  Being  a  single  man,  and,  as  I  observed  before, 
rather  an  idle  good-for-nothing  personage,  I  have  been 
considered  the  only  gentleman  by  profession  in  the 
place.  I  stand  therefore  in  high  favor  with  both  parties, 
and  have  to  hear  all  their  cabinet  councils  and  mutual 
backbitings.  As  I  am  too  civil  not  to  agree  with  the 
ladies  on  all  occasions,  I  have  committed  myself  most 
horribly  with  both  parties,  by  abusing  their  opponents. 
I  might  manage  to  reconcile  this  to  my  conscience, 
which  is  a  truly  accommodating  one,  but  I  cannot  tc 
my  apprehension  —  if  the  Lambs  and  Trotters  ever 
come  to  a  reconciliation,  and  compare  notes,  I  am 
ruined ! 

I  have  determined,  therefore,  to  beat  a  retreat  in 
time,  and  am  actually  looking  out  for  some  other  nest 
in  this  great  city,  where  old  English  manners  are  still 
kept  up  ;  where  French  is  neither  eaten,  drunk,  danced, 
nor  spoken  ;  and  where  there  are  no  fashionable  fami 
lies  of  retired  tradesmen.  This  found,  I  will,  like  a 
veteran  rat,  hasten  away  before  I  have  an  old  house 
about  my  ears  ;  bid  a  long,  though  a  sorrowful,  adieu 
to  my  present  abode,  and  leave  the  rival  factions  of 
the  Lambs  and  the  Trotters  to  divide  the  distracted 
empire  of  LITTLE  BRITAIN. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


INTRODUCTION. 

WITH  a  single  exception  the  prose  writings  of  Longfellow 
all  belong  to  that  period  of  his  life  which  was  connected 
with  his  early  travels  in  Europe  and  the  beginning  of  his 
professional  career  as  a  teacher  of  modern  literature.  In 
1833  he  published  a  translation  of  a  paper  on  Ancient 
French  Romances  by  Paulin  Paris,  and  an  Essay  on  the 
Moral  and  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain.  A  little  later 
appeared  Outre-Mer.  Between  the  publication  of  Outre- 
Mer  and  Hyperion,  which  appeared  in  1839,  he  contributed 
several  papers  to  periodicals  which  are  included  in  the  first 
volume  of  his  collected  prose  works  under  the  title  of  Drift- 
Wood,  —  papers  on  Frithiof's  Saga,  Hawthorne's  Twice- 
Told  Tales,  The  Great  Metropolis,  Anglo-Saxon  Litera 
ture,  and  Paris  in  the  Seventeenth  Century.  A  period  of 
six  years  includes  these  writings,  and  it  was  not  until  it 
closed  that  he  began  the  publication  of  original  verse,  his 
poetic  work  before  this  having  been  in  the  form  of  transla 
tion  from  the  French  and  Spanish.  His  prose  writings  thus 
precede,  in  time,  his  poetry,  and  they  are  intimately  con 
nected  with  his  personal  experience  and  observation  as  a 
traveller  and  student.  He  came  back  from  Europe  freighted 
with  memories  of  the  Old  World,  and  at  once  began  pour 
ing  from  a  full  cup  the  generous  wine  of  foreign  vineyards. 
Within  the  shelter  of  academic  life,  and  under  the  impulse 
of  a  catholic  zeal  for  literature,  he  eagerly  offered  the  trea 
sures  of  art,  legend,  and  history,  which  had  been  made  his 


142      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

own  by  the  appropriating  power  of  an  appreciative  taste, 
and  he  inclosed  most  of  his  work  within  forms  of  literary 
art  which  served  to  give  continuity  without  involution. 
Thus  Outre-Mer  is  a  record  of  travel,  continuous  in  its  geo 
graphical  outline,  hut  separated  from  ordinary  itineraries  by 
noting  less  the  personal  accidents  of  the  traveller  than  the 
poetic  and  romantic  scenes  which,  whether  in  the  present  or 
in  the  past,  marked  the  journey  and  transformed  it  into  the 
pilgrimage  of  a  devotee  to  art.  In  Hyperion  a  more  delibe 
rate  romance  is  intended,  but  the  lights  and  shades  of  the 
story  are  heightened  or  deepened  by  the  passages  of  travel 
and  study,  which  form  the  background  from  which  the 
human  figures  are  relieved.  It  is  interesting  to  observe 
how,  as  the  writer  was  more  withdrawn  from  the  actual 
Europe  of  his  eyes,  he  used  the  Europe  of  his  memory  and 
imagination  to  wait  upon  the  movements  of  a  profounder 
study,  the  adventures  of  a  human  soul.  These  two  books 
and  the  occasional  critical  papers  are  characterized  by  a 
strong  consciousness  of  literary  art.  Life  seems  always  to 
suggest  a  book  or  a  picture,  and  nature  is  always  viewed  in 
its  immediate  relation  to  form  and  color.  There  is  a  singu 
lar  discovery  of  the  Old  World,  and  while  European  writ 
ers,  like  Chateaubriand  for  example,  were  turning  to  Amer 
ica  for  new  and  unworn  images,  Longfellow,  reflecting  the 
awaking  desire  for  the  enduring  forms  of  art  which  his 
countrymen  were  showing,  eagerly  disclosed  the  treasures  to 
«  which  the  owners  seemed  almost  indifferent.  It  is  difficult 
to  measure  the  influence  which  his  broad,  catholic  taste  and 
his  refined  choice  of  subjects  have  had  upon  American  cul 
ture,  through  the  medium  of  these  works  and  that  large 
body  of  his  poetry  which  draws  an  inspiration  from  foreign 
life.  In  one  of  his  prose  works  he  makes  a  character  say, 
in  answer  to  a  demand  for  a  national  literature  :  — 

"  Nationality  is  a  good  thing  to  a  certain  extent,  but  uni 
versality  is  better.  All  that  is  best  in  the  great  poets  of  all 
countries  is  not  what  is  national  in  them,  but  what  is  univer- 


INTRODUCTION.  143 

sal.  Their  roots  are  in  their  native  soil ;  but  their  branches 
wave  in  the  unpatriotic  air,  that  speaks  the  same  language 
unto  al^  men,  and  their  leaves  shine  with  the  illimitable 
light  that  pervades  all  lands.  Let  us  throw  all  the  windows 
open ;  let  us  admit  the  light  and  air  on  all  sides ;  that  we 
may  look  toward  the  four  corners  of  the  heavens,  and  not 
always  in  the  same  direction."  1  It  is  this  universality  of 
interest  which  rendered  the  poet  so  open  to  the  best  which 
older  life  and  literature  could  afford,  and  he  frankly  re 
flected  it  in  his  writings.  "  As  the  blood  of  all  nations,"  he 
continues,  "  is  mingling  with  our  own,  so  will  their  thoughts 
and  feelings  finally  mingle  in  our  literature.  We  shall 
draw  from  the  Germans  tenderness ;  from  the  Spaniards 
passion;  from  the  French  vivacity,  to  mingle  more  and 
more  with  our  English  solid  sense.  And  this  will  give  us 
universality,  so  much  to  be  desired." 

Ten  years  elapsed  after  the  publication  of  Hyperion  be 
fore  another,  and  his  latest,  prose  work  appeared.  During 
that  period  many  of  his  well  known  shorter  poems  had 
been  issued  and  followed  by  The  Spanish  Student  and 
Evangeline.  Two  years  after  the  publication  of  this,  his 
best  known  work,  appeared  Kavanagh,  a  Tale,  in  1849.  It 
is  a  prose  idyl,  the  scene  laid  in  a  New  England,  presuma 
bly  Maine,  village,  and  the  story  gently  reflecting  the  life  of 
a  few  typical  characters.  The  style  is  simpler  than  in  his 
previous  prose,  and  the  positive  presence  of  the  old  world 
life  has  given  place  to  a  faint  odor  of  the  same  which  per 
vades  the  atmosphere  of  the  book.  The  stormy  passions  of 
life  are  merely  hinted  at  in  the  story,  while  the  more  pen 
sive  graces  and  romantic  aspirations  are  made  to  form  the 
tints  of  the  picture.  The  plot  is  only  sketched,  for  it  is  in 
the  sentiment  of  the  characters  that  the  author,  and  conse 
quently  the  reader,  has  his  real  interest.  The  student  of 
literature  sees  some  traces  in  it  of  the  influence  of  Jean 
Paul  Richter.  It  is  less  studied  and  less  conscious,  but  its 
material  is  quite  as  distinctly  pure  sentiment. 

1  Kavanagh,  xx. 


144      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

With  Kavanagh  prose  was  left  behind,  and  indeed  after 
this  the  poet  trod  with  firmer  step  in  verse,  and  with  a  more 
marked  individuality.  That  is  to  say,  and  the  lesson  is  a 
valuable  one  to  students,  so  far  he  had  been  forming  his 
work  upon  models  already  created  and  had  been  advancing 
as  a  student  in  literature  while  yet  using  creative  power. 
The  long  apprenticeship  which  he  had  been  serving  to  great 
masters  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  he  was  to  stand  forth 
more  distinctly  as  himself  a  master.  There  are  few  exam 
ples  in  literature,  none  certainly  in  our  own,  so  instructive 
of  the  power  which  comes  from  admiration  of  great  work, 
and  an  imitation  which  is  not  servile  but  fresh,  enthusiastic, 
and  with  constant  reference  to  new  creation.  The  consum 
mate  mastery  of  poetic  form  which  displays  itself  in  the 
sonnets,  especially  in  Mr.  Longfellow's  latest  work,  may 
be  traced  back  step  by  step  to  the  patient,  untiring  study  of 
the  earlier  days.  With  equal  truth  it  may  be  said  that  the 
final  exclusion  of  prose  from  his  composition  was  the  result 
of  the  gradual  perfection  of  higher  forms  of  art  and  the 
withdrawal  of  his  attention  from  the  mere  rescript  of  mate 
rial  to  the  creation  of  self-contained  art.  The  attentive 
reader  will  discover  how  closely  Kavanagh  borders  upon  the 
poetic  in  form,  for  it  is  careless  of  the  details  which  give 
richness  to  prose  romance,  and  careful  only  of  the  essential 
facts  in  which  poetry  and  prose  alike  are  concerned. 

The  form  of  Hyperion  and  Kavanagh  renders  it  inexpe 
dient  to  select  detached  scenes  from  them.  The  two  chap 
ters  which  follow  are  both  from  Outre-Mer. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

Je  ne  COIIQOIS  qu'une  maniere  de  voyager  plus  agitable  que  d'aller  a-  cheval ; 
c'est  d'aller  4  pied.  On  part  a  son  moment,  on  s'arrete  a  sa  voloutt},  on  fait  taut 
et  si  peu  d 'exercise  qu'on  veut. 

Quand  on  ne  veut  qu'arriver,  on  peut  courir  en  chaise  de  poste  ;  mais  quand  on 
veut  voyager,  il  faut  aller  &  pied.  ROUSSEAU. 

IN  the  beautiful  month  of  October,  I  made  a  foot 
excursion  along  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  from  Orleans 
to  Tours.  This  luxuriant  region  is  justly  called  the 
garden  of  France.  From  Orleans  to  Blois  the  whole 
valley  of  the  Loire  is  one  continued  vineyard.  The 
bright  green  foliage  of  the  vine  spreads,  like  the  undu 
lations  of  the  sea,  over  all  the  landscape,  with  here 
and  there  a  silver  flash  of  the  river,  a  sequestered 
hamlet,  or  the  towers  of  an  old  chateau,  to  enliven 
and  variegate  the  scene. 

The  vintage  had  already  commenced.  The  peas 
antry  were  busy  in  the  fields,  —  the  song  that  cheered 
their  labor  was  on  the  breeze,  and  the  heavy  wagon  tot 
tered  by,  laden  with  the  clusters  of  the  vine.  Every 
thing  around  me  wore  that  happy  look  which  makes 
the  heart  glad.  In  the  morning  I  arose  with  the  lark  ; 
and  at  night  I  slept  where  sunset  overtook  me.  The 
healthy  exercise  of  foot-travelling,  the  pure,  bracing 
air  of  autumn,  and  the  cheerful  aspect  of  the  whole 
landscape  about  me  gave  fresh  elasticity  to  a  mind  not 
overburdened  with  care,  and  made  me  forget  not  only 
the  fatigue  of  walking,  but  also  the  consciousness  of 
being  alone. 


146      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

My  first  day's  journey  brought  me  at  evening  to  a 
village,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  situated  about 
eight  leagues  from  Orleans.  It  is  a  small,  obscure  ham 
let,  not  mentioned  in  the  guide-book,  and  stands  upon 
the  precipitous  banks  of  a  deep  ravine,  through  which 
a  noisy  brook  leaps  down  to  turn  the  ponderous  wheel 
of  a  thatch-roofed  mill.  The  village  inn  stands  upon 
the  highway;  but  the  village  itself  is  not  visible  to 
the  traveller  as  he  passes.  It  is  completely  hidden 
in  the  lap  of  a  wooded  valley,  and  so  embowered  in 
trees  that  not  a  roof  nor  a  chimney  peeps  out  to  be 
tray  its  hiding-place.  It  is  like  the  nest  of  a  ground- 
swallow,  which  the  passing  footstep  almost  treads 
upon,  and  yet  it  is  not  seen.  I  passed  by  without  sus 
pecting  that  a  village  was  near ;  and  the  little  inn  had 
a  look  so  uninviting  that  I  did  not  even  enter  it. 

After  proceeding  a  mile  or  two  farther  I  perceived, 
upon  my  left,  a  village  spire  rising  over  the  vineyards. 
Towards  this  I  directed  my  footsteps ;  but  it  seemed 
to  recede  as  I  advanced,  and  at  last  quite  disappeared. 
It  was  evidently  many  miles  distant ;  and  as  the  path 
I  followed  descended  from  the  highway,  it  had  grad 
ually  sunk  beneath  a  swell  of  the  vine-clad  landscape. 
I  now  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  an  extensive  vine 
yard.  It  was  just  sunset ;  and  the  last  golden  rays 
lingered  on  the  rich  and  mellow  scenery  around  me. 
The  peasantry  were  still  busy  at  their  task  ;  and  the 
occasional  bark  of  a  dog,  and  the  distant  sound  of  an 
evening  bell,  gave  fresh  romance  to  the  scene.  The 
reality  of  many  a  daydream  of  childhood,  of  many  a 
poetic  revery  of  youth,  was  before  me.  I  stood  at 
sunset  amid  the  luxuriant  vineyards  of  France  ! 

The  first  person  I  met  was  a  poor  old  woman,  a  lit 
tle  bowed  down  with  age,  gathering  grapes  into  a  large 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE.  147 

basket.  She  was  dressed  like  the  poorest  class  of 
peasantry,  and  pursued  her  solitary  task  alone,  heed 
less  of  the  cheerful  gossip  and  the  merry  laugh  which 
came  from  a  band  of  more  youthful  vintagers  at  a 
short  distance  from  her.  She  was  so  intently  engaged 
in  her  work,  that  she  did  not  perceive  my  approach 
until  I  bade  .her  good  evening.  On  hearing  my  voice, 
she  looked  up  from  her  labor,  and  returned  the  saluta 
tion  ;  and,  on  my  asking  her  if  there  were  a  tavern  or 
a  farm-house  in  the  neighborhood  where  I  could  pass 
the  night,  she  showed  me  the  pathway  through  the 
vineyard  that  led  to  the  village,  and  then  added,  with 
a  look  of  curiosity,  — 

"  You  must  be  a  stranger,  sir,  in  these  parts." 

"  Yes  ;  my  home  is  very  far  f ron$  here." 

"  How  far  ?  " 

"  More  than  a  thousand  leagues." 

The  old  woman  looked  incredulous. 

"  I  came  from  a  distant  land  beyond  the  sea." 

"  More  than  a  thousand  leagues !  "  at  length  re 
peated  she ;  "  and  why  have  you  come  so  far  from 
home  ?  " 

"  To  travel,  —  to  see  how  you  live  in  this  country." 

"  Have  you  no  relations  in  your  own  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  have  both  brothers  and  sisters,  a  father 
and  "  — 

"  And  a  mother  ?  " 

"  Thank  Heaven,  I  have." 

"  And  did  you  leave  her  ?  " 

Here  the  old  woman  gave  me  a  piercing  look  of 
reproof  ;  shook  her  head  mournfully,  and,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  as  if  some  painful  recollections  had  been  awak 
ened  in  her  bosom,  turned  again  to  her  solitary  task. 
I  felt  rebuked ;  for  there  is  something  almost  pro* 


148      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

phetic  in  the  admonitions  of  the  old.  The  eye  of  age 
looks  meekly  into  my  heart !  the  voice  of  age  echoes 
mournfully  through  it!  the  hoary  head  and  palsied 
hand  of  age  plead  irresistibly  for  its  sympathies  !  I 
venerate  old  age ;  and  I  love  not  the  man  who  can 
look  without  emotion  upon  the  sunset  of  life,  when 
the  dusk  of  evening  begins  to  gather  over  the  watery 
eye,  and  the  shadows  of  twilight  grow  broader  and 
deeper  upon  the  understanding  ! 

I  pursued  the  pathway  which  led  towards  the  vil 
lage,  and  the  next  person  I  encountered  was  an  old 
man,  stretched  lazily  beneath  the  vines  upon  a  little 
strip  of  turf,  at  a  point  where  four  paths  met,  forming 
a  crossway  in  the  vineyard.  He  was  clad  in  a  coarse 
garb  of  gray,  with  a  pair  of  long  gaiters  or  spatter 
dashes.  Beside  him  lay  a  blue  cloth  cap,  a  staff,  and 
an  old  weather-beaten  knapsack.  I  saw  at  once  that 
he  was  a  foot-traveller  like  myself,  and  therefore, 
without  more  ado,  entered  into  conversation  with  him. 
From  his  language,  and  the  peculiar  manner  in  which 
he  now  and  then  wiped  his  upper  lip  with  the  back 
of  his  hand,  as  if  in  search  of  the  mustache  which  was 
no  longer  there,  I  judged  that  he  had  been  a  soldier. 
In  this  opinion  I  was  not  mistaken.  He  had  served 
under  Napoleon,  and  had  followed  the  imperial  eagle 
across  the  Alps,  and  the  Pyrenees,  and  the  burning 
sands  of  Egypt.  Like  every  vieille  moustache,  he 
spake  with  enthusiasm  of  the  Little  Corporal,  and 
cursed  the  English,  the  Germans,  the  Spanish,  and 
every  other  race  on  earth,  except  the  Great  Nation, 
—  his  own. 

"I  like,"  said  he,  "after  a  long  day's  march,  to 
lie  down  in  this  way  upon  the  grass,  and  enjoy  the 
cool  of  the  evening.  It  reminds  me  of  the  bivouacs 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE.  149 

of  other  days,  and  of  old  friends  who  are  now  up 
there." 

Here  he  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the  sky. 

"They  have  reached  the  last  etape  before  me,  in 
the  long  march.  But  I  shall  go  soon.  We  shall  all 

meet  again  at  the  last  roll-call.  Sacre  nom  de ! 

There  's  a  tear !  " 

He  wiped  it  away  with  his  sleeve. 

Here  our  colloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  approach 
of  a  group  of  vintagers,  who  were  returning  homeward 
from  their  labor.  To  this  party  I  joined  myself,  and 
invited  the  old  soldier  to  do  the  same ;  but  he  shook 
his  head. 

"  I  thank  you ;  my  pathway  lies  in  a  different  direc 
tion." 

"  But  there  is  no  other  village  near,  and  the  sun  has 
already  set." 

"  No  matter,  I  am  used  to  sleeping  on  the  greund. 
Good  night." 

I  left  the  old  man  to  his  meditations,  and  walked 
on  in  company  with  the  vintagers.  Following  a  well- 
trodden  pathway  through  the  vineyards,  we  soon  de 
scended  the  valley's  slope,  and  I  suddenly  found  my 
self  in  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  little  hamlets  from 
which  the  laborer  rises  to  his  toil  as  the  skylark  to 
his  song.  My  companions  wished  me  a  good  night, 
as  each  entered  his  own  thatch-roofed  cottage,  and  a 
little  girl  led  me  out  to  the  very  inn  which  an  hour  or 
two  before  I  had  disdained  to  enter. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning  a  brilliant  autumnal 
sun  was  shining  in  at  my  window.  The  merry  song 
of  birds  mingled  sweetly  with  the  sound  of  rustling 
leaves  and  the  gurgle  of  the  brook.  The  vintagers 
were  going  forth  to  their  toil ;  the  wine-press  was 


150      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

busy  in  the  shade,  and  the  clatter  .of  the  mill  kept 
time  to  the  miller's  song.  I  loitered  about  the  village 
with  a  feeling  of  calm  delight.  I  was  unwilling  to 
leave  the  seclusion  of  this  sequestered  hamlet;  but 
at  length,  with  reluctant  step,  I  took  the  cross-road 
through  the  vineyard,  and  in  a  moment  the  little  vil 
lage  had  sunk  again,  as  if  by  enchantment,  into  the 
bosom  of  the  earth. 

I  breakfasted  at  the  town  of  Mer ;  and,  leaving  the 
high-road  to  Blois  on  the  right,  passed  down  to  the 
banks  of  the  Loire,  through  a  long,  broad  avenue  of 
poplars  and  sycamores.  I  crossed  the  river  in  a  boat, 
and  in  the  after  part  of  the  day  I  found  myself  before 
the  high  and  massive  walls  of  the  chateau  of  Cham- 
bord.  This  chateau  is  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of 
the  ancient  Gothic  castle  to  be  found  in  Europe.  The 
little  river  Cosson  fills  its  deep  and  ample  moat,  and 
above  it  the  huge  towers  and  heavy  battlements  rise  in 
stern  and  solemn  grandeur,  moss-grown  with  age,  and 
blackened  by  the  storms  of  three  centuries.  Within, 
all  is  mournful  and  deserted.  The  grass  has  over 
grown  the  pavement  of  the  courtyard,  and  the  rude 
sculpture  upon  the  walls  is  broken  and  defaced.  From 
the  courtyard  I  entered  the  central  tower,  and,  ascend 
ing  the  principal  staircase,  went  out  upon  the  battle 
ments.  I  seemed  to  have  stepped  back  into  the  pre 
cincts  of  the  feudal  ages ;  and,  as  I  passed  along 
through  echoing  corridors,  and  vast,  deserted  halls, 
stripped  of  their  furniture,  and  mouldering  silently 
away,  the  distant  past  came  back  upon  me ;  and  the 
times  when  the  clang  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  mail- 
clad  men,  and  the  sounds  of  music  and  revelry  and 
wassail  echoed  along  those  high-vaulted  and  solitary 
chambers ! 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE.  151 

My  third  day's  journey  brought  me  to  the  ancient 
city  of  Blois,  the  chief  town  of  the  department  of 
Loire-et-Cher.  This  city  is  celebrated  for  the  purity 
with  which  even  the  lower  classes  of  its  inhabitants 
speak  their  native  tongue.  It  rises  precipitously  from 
the  northern  bank  of  the  Loire ;  and  many  of  its 
streets  are  so  steep  as  to  be  almost  impassable  for  car 
riages.  On  the  brow  of  the  hill,  overlooking  the  roofs 
of  the  city,  and  commanding  a  fine  view  of  the  Loire 
and  its  noble  bridge,  and  the  surrounding  country, 
sprinkled  with  cottages  and  chateaux,  runs  an  ample 
terrace,  planted  with  trees,  and  laid  out  as  a  public 
walk.  The  view  from  this  terrace  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  in  France.  But  what  most  strikes  the  eye  of 
the  traveller  at  Blois  is  an  old,  though  still  unfinished, 
castle.  Its  huge  parapets  of  hewn  stone  stand  upon 
either  side  of  the  street ;  but  they  have  walled  up  the 
wide  gateway,  from  which  the  colossal  drawbridge  was 
to  have  sprung  high  in  air,  connecting  together  the 
main  towers  of  the  building,  and  the  two  hills  upon 
whose  slope  its  foundations  stand.  The  aspect  of  this 
vast  pile  is  gloomy  and  desolate.  It  seems  as  if  the 
strong  hand  of  the  builder  had  been  arrested  in  the 
midst  of  his  task  by  the  stronger  hand  of  death ;  and 
the  unfinished  fabric  stands  a  lasting  monument  both 
of  the  power  and  weakness  of  man,  —  of  his  vast 
desires,  his  sanguine  hopes,  his  ambitious  purposes,  — 
and  of  the  unlooked-for  conclusion,  where  all  these 
desires  and  hopes  and  purposes  are  so  often  arrested. 
There  is  also  at  Blois  another  ancient  chateau,  to  which 
some  historic  interest  is  attached,  as  being  the  scene  of 
the  massacre  of  the  Duke  of  Guise. l 

On  the  following  day,  I  left  Blois  for  Amboise  ; 

1  Blois  was  the  place  of  meeting  of  the  States  General  in  1588, 


152      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

and,  after  walking  several  leagues  along  the  dusty 
highway,  crossed  the  river  in  a  boat  to  the  little  vil 
lage  of  Moines,  which  lies  amid  luxuriant  vineyards 
upon  the  southern  bank  of  the  Loire.  From  Moines 
to  Amboise  the  road  is  truly  delightful.  The  rich 
lowland  scenery,  by  the  margin  of  the  river,  is  verdant 
even  in  October ;  and  occasionally  the  landscape  is 
diversified  with  the  picturesque  cottages  of  the  vin 
tagers,  cut  in  the  rock  along  the  roadside,  and  over 
hung  by  the  thick  foliage  of  the  vines  above  them. 

At  Amboise  I  took  a  cross-road,  which  led  me  to 
the  romantic  borders  of  the  Cher  and  the  chateau  of 
Chenonceau.  This  beautiful  chateau,  as  well  as  that 
of  Chambord,  was  built  by  the  gay  and  munificent 
Francis  the  First.  One  is  a  specimen  of  strong  and 
massive  architecture,  —  a  dwelling  for  a  warrior ;  but 
the  other  is  of  a  lighter  and  more  graceful  construc 
tion,  and  was  destined  for  those  soft  languishments  of 
passion  with  which  the  fascinating  Diane  de  Poitiers 
had  filled  the  bosom  of  that  voluptuous  monarch. 

The  chateau  of  Chenonceau  is  built  upon  arches 
across  the  river  Cher,  whose  waters  are  made  to  sup 
ply  the  deep  moat  at  each  extremity.  There  is  a 
spacious  courtyard  in  front,  from  which  a  drawbridge 
conducts  to  the  outer  hall  of  the  castle.  There  the 
armor  of  Francis  the  First  still  hangs  upon  the  wall, 
—  his  shield,  and  helm,  and  lance,  —  as  if  the  chival 
rous  prince  has  just  exchanged  them  for  the  silken 
robes  of  the  drawing-room.  From  this  hall  a  door 
opens  into  a  long  gallery,  extending  the  whole  length 
of  the  building,  across  the  Cher.  The  walls  of  the 

and  it  was  on  December  23d  of  that  year  that  Henry  III.  caused 
the  murder  of  the  Duke  of  Guise,  an  event  which  grew  out  of 
the  violence  of  the  religious  wars  of  France. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE.  153 

gallery  are  hung  with  the  faded  portraits  of  the  long 
line  of  the  descendants  of  Hugh  Capet ;  and  the  win 
dows,  looking  up  and  down  the  stream,  command  a 
fine  reach  of  pleasant  river  scenery.  This  is  said  to 
be  the  only  chateau  in  France  in  which  the  ancient 
furniture  of  its  original  age  is  preserved.  In  one  part 
of  the  building  you  are  shown  the  bed-chamber  of 
Diane  de  Poitiers,  with  its  antique  chairs  covered  with 
faded  damask  and  embroidery,  her  bed,  and  a  portrait 
of  the  royal  favorite  hanging  over  tlie  mantelpiece. 
In  another  you  see  the  apartment  of  the  infamous 
Catherine  de'  Medici ;  a  venerable  arm-chair  and  an 
autograph  letter  of  Henry  the  Fourth ;  and  in  an  old 
laboratory,  among  broken  crucibles,  and  neckless  re 
torts,  and  drums,  and  trumpets,  and  skins  of  wild 
beasts,  and  other  ancient  lumber,  of  various  kinds, 
are  to  be  seen  the  bed-posts  of  Francis  the  First ! 
Doubtless  the  naked  walls  and  the  vast  solitary  cham 
bers  of  an  old  and  desolate  chateau  inspire  a  feeling 
of  greater  solemnity  and  awe  ;  but  when  the  antique 
furniture  of  the  olden  time  remains,  —  the  faded  tap 
estry  on  the  walls,  and  the  arm-chair  by  the  fireside, 
—  the  effect  upon  the  mind  is  more  magical  and  de 
lightful.  The  old  inhabitants  of  the  place,  long  gath 
ered  to  their  fathers,  though  living  still  in  history, 
seem  to  have  left  their  halls  for  the  chase  or  the  tour 
nament  ;  and  as  the  heavy  door  swings  upon  its  re 
luctant  hinge,  one  almost  expects  to  see  the  gallant 
princes  and  courtly  dames  enter  those  halls  again,  and 
sweep  in  stately  procession  along  the  silent  corridors. 
Rapt  in  such  fancies  as  these,  and  gazing  on  the 
beauties  of  this  noble  edifice,  and  the  soft  scenery 
around  it,  I  lingered,  unwilling  to  depart,  till  the  rays 
of  the  setting  sun,  streaming  through  the  dusty  win- 


154      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

dows,  admonished  me  that  the  day  was  drawing  rap 
idly  to  a  close.  I  sallied  forth  from  the  southern  gate 
of  the  chateau,  and,  crossing  the  broken  drawbridge, 
pursued  a  pathway  along  the  bank  of  the  river,  still  gaz 
ing  back  upon  those  towering  walls,  now  bathed  in  the 
rich  glow  of  sunset,  till  a  turn  in  the  road  and  a  clump 
of  woodland  at  length  shut  them  out  from  my  sight. 

A  short  time  after  candle-lighting  I  reached  the 
little  tavern  of  the  Boule  d'Or,  a  few  leagues  from 
Tours,  where  I  passed  the  night.  The  following  morn 
ing  was  lowering  and  sad.  A  veil  of  mist  hung  over 
the  landscape,  and  ever  and  anon  a  heavy  shower  burst 
from  the  overburdened  clouds,  that  were  driven  by 
before  a  high  and  piercing  wind.  This  unpropitious 
state  of  the  weather  detained  me  until  noon,  when  a 
cabriolet  for  Tours  drove  up ;  and  taking  a  seat  within 
it,  I  left  the  hostess  of  the  Boule  d'Or  in  the  middle 
of  a  long  story  about  a  rich  countess,  who  always 
alighted  there  when  she  passed  that  way.  We  drove 
leisurely  along  through  a  beautiful  country,  till  at 
length  we  came  to  the  brow  of  a  steep  hill,  which 
commands  a  fine  view  of  the  city  of  Tours  and  its  de 
lightful  environs.  But  the  scene  was  shrouded  by  the 
heavy  drifting  mist,  through  which  I  could  trace  but 
indistinctly  the  graceful  sweep  of  the  Loire,  and  the 
spires  and  roofs  of  the  city  far  below  me. 

The  city  of  Tours  and  the  delicious  plain  in  which 
it  lies  have  been  too  often  described  by  other  travel 
lers  to  render  a  new  description,  from  so  listless  a  pen 
as  mine,  either  necessary  or  desirable.  After  a  sojourn 
of  two  cloudy  and  melancholy  days,  I  set  out  on  my 
return  to  Paris,  by  the  way  of  Vendome  and  Chartres. 
I  stopped  a  few  hours  at  the  former  place,  to  exam 
ine  the  ruins  of  a  chateau  built  by  Jeanne  d'Albret, 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN.  155 

mother  of  Henry  the  Fourth.  It  stands  upon  the 
summit  of  a  high  and  precipitous  hill,  and  almost 
overhangs  the  town  beneath.  The  French  Revolution 
has  completed  the  ruin  that  time  had  already  begun  ; 
and  nothing  now  remains  but  a  broken  and  crumbling 
bastion,  and  here  and  there  a  solitary  tower  dropping 
slowly  to  decay.  In  one  of  these  is  the  grave  of  Jeanne 
d'Albret.  A  marble  entablature  in  the  wall  above 
contains  the  inscription,  which  is  nearly  effaced,  though 
enough  still  remains  to  tell  the  curious  traveller  that 
there  lies  buried  the  mother  of  the  "  Bon  Henri."  To 
this  is  added  a  prayer  that  the  repose  of  the  dead  may 
be  respected. 

Here  ended  my  foot  excursion.  The  object  of  my 
journey  was  accomplished ;  and,  delighted  with  this 
short  ramble  through  the  valley  of  the  Loire,  I  took 
my  seat  in  the  diligence  for  Paris,  and  on  the  follow 
ing  day  was  again  swallowed  up  in  the  crowds  of  the 
metropolis,  like  a  drop  in  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 


IL 
THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN. 

A  Tissue  de  1'yver  que  le  joly  temps  de  primavere  commence,  et  qu'on  voit 
arbres  verdoyer,  fleurs  espauouir,  et  qu'on  oit  les  oisillons  chanter  en  toute  joie  et 
doulceur,  tant  que  les  verts  bocages  retentissent  de  leurs  sons  et  que  coeurs  tristes 
pensifs  y  dolens  s'en  esjouissent,  s'eineuvent  a  delaisser  deuil  et  toute  tristesse,  et 
se  parf orcent  a  valoir  mieux. 

LA  PLAISANTE  HISTOIEE  DE  GUERIN  DE  MONOLAVE. 

SOFT  -  BREATHING  Spring !  how  many  pleasant 
thoughts,  how  many  delightful  recollections,  does  thy 
name  awaken  in  the  mind  of  a  traveller !  Whether 
he  has  followed  thee  by  the  banks  of  the  Loire  or  the 
Guadalquivir,  or  traced  thy  footsteps  slowly  climbing 


156      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

the  sunny  slope  of  Alp  or  Apennine,  the  thought  of 
thee  shall  summon  up  sweet  visions  of  the  past,  and 
thy  golden  sunshine  and  soft  vapory  atmosphere  be 
come  a  portion  of  his  day-dreams  and  of  him.  Sweet 
images  of  thee,  and  scenes  that  have  oft  inspired  the 
poet's  song,  shall  mingle  in  his  recollections  of  the 
past.  The  shooting  of  the  tender  leaf,  —  the  sweet 
ness  and  elasticity  of  the  air,  —  the  blue  sky,  —  the 
fleet-drifting  cloud,  —  and  the  flocks  of  wild  fowl 
wheeling  in  long-drawn  phalanx  through  the  air,  and 
screaming  from  their  dizzy  height,  —  all  these  shall 
pass  like  a  dream  before  his  imagination, 

"  And  gently  o'er  his  memory  come  at  times 
A  glimpse  of  joys  that  had  their  birth  in  thee, 
Like  a  brief  strain  of  some  forgotten  tune." 

It  was  at  the  opening  of  this  delightful  season  of 
the  year  that  I  passed  through  the  South  of  France, 
and  took  the  road  of  St.  Jean  de  Luz  for  the  Spanish 
frontier.  I  left  Bordeaux  amid  all  the  noise  and  gay- 
ety  of  the  last  scene  of  Carnival.  The  streets  and 
public  walks  of  the  city  were  full  of  merry  groups  in 
masks,  —  at  every  corner  crowds  were  listening  to  the 
discordant  music  of  the  wandering  ballad-singer ;  and 
grotesque  figures,  mounted  on  high  stilts,  and  dressed 
in  the  garb  of  the  peasants  of  the  Landes  of  Gascony, 
were  stalking  up  and  down  like  so  many  long-legged 
cranes  ;  others  were  amusing  themselves  with  the  tricks 
and  grimaces  of  little  monkeys,  disguised  like  little 
men,  bowing  to  the  ladies,  and  figuring  away  in  red 
coats  and  ruffles  ;  and  here  and  there  a  band  of  chim 
ney-sweeps  were  staring  in  stupid  wonder  at  the  mira 
cles  of  a  showman's  box.  In  a  word,  all  was  so  full 
of  mirth  and  merrimake,  that  even  beggary  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  that  it  was  wretched,  and  gloried  in 
the  ragged  masquerade  of  one  poor  holiday. 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN.  157 

To  this  scene  of  noise  and  gayety  succeeded  the 
silence  and  solitude  of  the  Landes  of  Gascony.  The 
road  from  Bordeaux  to  Bayonne  winds  along  through 
immense  pine  forests  and  sandy  plains,  spotted  here 
and  there  with  a  dingy  little  hovel,  and  the  silence  is 
interrupted  only  by  the  dismal  hollow  roar  of  the  wind 
among  the  melancholy  and  majestic  pines.  Occasion 
ally,  however,  the  way  is  enlivened  by  a  market-town 
or  a  straggling  village ;  and  I  still  recollect  the  feel 
ings  of  delight  which  I  experienced,  when,  just  after 
sunset,  we  passed  through  the  romantic  town  of  Roque 
fort,  built  upon  the  sides  of  the  green  valley  of  the 
Douze,  which  has  scooped  out  a  verdant  hollow  for  it 
to  nestle  in,  amid  those  barren. tracts  of  sand. 

On  leaving  Bayonne  the  scene  assumes  a  character 
of  greater  beauty  and  sublimity.  To  the  vast  forests 
of  the  Landes  of  Gascony  succeeds  a  scene  of  pictur 
esque  beauty,  delightful  to  the  traveller's  eye.  Before 
him  rise  the  snowy  Pyrenees,  —  a  long  line  of  undu 
lating  hills,  — 

"  Bounded  afar  by  peak  aspiring  bold, 
Like  giant  capped  with  helm  of  burnished  gold." 

To  the  left,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  stretch  the 
delicious  valleys  of  the  Nive  and  Adour ;  and  to  the 
right  the  sea  flashes  along  the  pebbly  margin  of  its 
silver  beach,  forming  a  thousand  little  bays  and  inlets, 
or  comes  tumbling  in  among  the  cliffs  of  a  rock-bound 
coast,  and  beats  against  its  massive  barriers  with  a 
distant,  hollow,  continual  roar. 

Should  these  pages  meet  the  eye  of  any  solitary 
traveller  who  is  journeying  into  Spain  by  the  road 
I  here  speak  of,  I  would  advise  him  to  travel  from 
Bayonne  to  St.  Jean  de  Luz  on  horseback.  At  the 
gate  of  Bayonne  he  will  find  a  steed  ready  capari- 


158      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

aoned  for  him,  with  a  dark-eyed  Basque  girl  for  his 
companion  and  guide,  who  is  to  sit  beside  him  upon 
the  same  horse.  This  style  of  travelling  is,  I  believe, 
peculiar  to  the  Basque  provinces ;  at  all  events,  I  have 
seen  it  nowhere  else.  The  saddle  is  constructed  with 
a  large  frame-work  extending  on  each  side,  and  cov 
ered  with  cushions  ;  and  the  traveller  and  his  guide, 
being  placed  on  the  opposite  extremities,  serve  as  a 
balance  to  each  other.  We  overtook  many  travellers 
mounted  in  this  way,  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  it 
a  mode  of  travelling  far  preferable  to  being  cooped 
up  in  a  diligence.  The  Basque  girls  are  generally 
beautiful ;  and  there  was  one  of  these  merry  guides 
we  met  upon  the  road  to  Bidart  whose  image  haunts 
me  still.  She  had  large  and  expressive  black  eyes, 
teeth  like  pearls,  a  rich  and  sunburnt  complexion,  and 
hair  of  a  glossy  blackness,  parted  on  the  forehead,  and 
falling  down  behind  in  a  large  braid,  so  long  as  al 
most  to  touch  the  ground  with  the  little  ribbon  that 
confined  it  at  the  end.  She  wore  the  common  dress 
of  the  peasantry  of  the  South  of  France,  and  a  large 
gypsy  straw  hat  was  thrown  back  over  her  shoulder, 
and  tied  by  a  ribbon  about  her  neck.  There  was 
hardly  a  dusty  traveller  in  the  coach  who  did  not  envy 
her  companion  the  seat  he  occupied  beside  her. 

Just  at  nightfall  we  entered  the  town  of  St.  Jean 
de  Luz,  and  dashed  down  its  narrow  streets  at  full 
gallop.  The  little  madcap  postilion  cracked  his 
knotted  whip  incessantly,  and  the  sound  echoed  back 
from  the  high  dingy  walls  like  the  report  of  a  pistol. 
The  coach-wheels  nearly  touched  the  houses  on  each 
side  of  us ;  the  idlers  in  the  street  jumped  right  and 
left  to  save  themselves ;  window-shutters  flew  open  in 
all  directions ;  a  thousand  heads  popped  out  from  eel- 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN.  159 

lar  and  upper  story ;  "  Sacr-r-re  matin  I  "  shouted  the 
postilion,  —  and  we  rattled  on  like  an  earthquake. 

St.  Jean  de  Luz  is  a  smoky  little  fishing  town,  situ 
ated  on  the  low  grounds  at  the  mouth  of  the  Nivelle, 
and  a  bridge  connects  it  with  the  faubourg  of  Si- 
bourne,  which  stands  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river. 
I  had  no  time,  however,  to  note  the  peculiarities  of 
the  place,  for  I  was  whirled  out  of  it  with  the  same 
speed  and  confusion  with  which  I  had  been  whirled 
in,  and  I  can  only  recollect  the  sweep  of  the  road 
across  the  Nivelle,  —  the  church  of  Sibourne  by  the 
water's  edge,  —  the  narrow  streets,  —  the  smoky-look 
ing  houses  with  red  window-shutters,  and  "a  very 
ancient  and  fish-like  smell." 

I  passed  by  moonlight  the  little  river  Bidasoa, 
which  forms  the  boundary  between  France  and  Spain ; 
and  when  the  morning  broke,  found  myself  far  up 
among  the  mountains  of  San  Salvador,  the  most  west 
erly  links  of  the  great  Pyrenean  chain.  The  moun 
tains  around  me  were  neither  rugged  nor  precipitous, 
but  they  rose  one  above  another  in  a  long,  majestic 
swell,  and  the  trace  of  the  ploughshare  was  occasion 
ally  visible  to  their  summits.  They  seemed  entirely 
destitute  of  trees ;  and  as  the  season  of  vegetation  had 
not  yet  commenced,  their  huge  outlines  lay  black,  and 
barren,  and  desolate  against  the  sky.  But  it  was  a 
glorious  morning,  and  the  sun  rose  up  into  a  cloudless 
heaven,  and  poured  a  flood  of  gorgeous  splendor  over 
the  mountain  landscape,  as  if  proud  of  the  realm  he 
shone  upon.  The  scene  was  enlivened  by  the  dashing 
of  a  swollen  mountain-brook,  whose  course  we  fol 
lowed  for  miles  down  the  valley,  as  it  leaped  onward 
to  its  journey's  end,  now  breaking  into  a  white  cas 
cade,  and  now  foaming  and  chafing  beneath  a  rustic 


160      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

bridge.  Now  and  then  we  drove  through  a  dilapi 
dated  town,  with  a  group  of  idlers  at  every  corner, 
wrapped  in  tattered  brown  cloaks,  and  smoking  their 
little  paper  cigars  in  the  sun;  then  would  succeed  a 
desolate  tract  of  country,  cheered  only  by  the  tinkle 
of  a  mule-bell,  or  the  song  of  a  muleteer  ;  then  we 
would  meet  a  solitary  traveller  mounted  on  horse 
back,  and  wrapped  in  the  ample  folds  of  his  cloak, 
with  a  gun  hanging  at  the  pommel  of  his  saddle. 
Occasionally,  too,  among  the  bleak,  inhospitable  hills, 
we  passed  a  rude  little  chapel,  with  a  cluster  of  ruined 
cottages  around  it ;  and  whenever  our  carriage  stopped 
at  the  relay,  or  loitered  slowly  up  the  hillside,  a  crowd 
of  children  would  gather  around  us,  with  little  images 
and  crucifixes  for  sale,  curiously  ornamented  with  rib 
bons  and  bits  of  tawdry  finery. 

A  day's  journey  from  the  frontier  brought  us  to 
Vitoria,  where  the  diligence  stopped  for  the  night.  I 
spent  the  scanty  remnant  of  daylight  in  rambling 
about  the  streets  of  the  city,  with  no  other  guide 
than  the  whim  of  the  moment.  Now  I  plunged  down 
a  dark  and  narrow  alley,  now  emerged  into  a  wide 
street  or  a  spacious  market-place,  and  now  aroused 
the  drowsy  echoes  of  a  church  or  cloister  with  the 
sound  of  my  intruding  footsteps.  But  descriptions 
of  churches  and  public  squares  are  dull  and  tedious 
matters  for  those  readers  who  are  in  search  of  amuse 
ment,  and  not  of  instruction ;  and  if  any  one  has  ac 
companied  me  thus  far  on  my  fatiguing  journey 
towards  the  Spanish  capital,  I  will  readily  excuse  him 
from  the  toil  of  an  evening  ramble  through  the  streets 
of  Vitoria. 

On  the  following  morning  we  left  the  town,  long 
before  daybreak,  and  during  our  forenoon's  journey 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN.  161 

the  postilion  drew  up  at  an  inn,  on  the  southern  slope 
of  the  Sierra  de  San  Lorenzo,  in  the  province  of  Old 
Castile.  The  house  was  an  old,  dilapidated  tenement, 
built  of  rough  stone,  and  coarsely  plastered  upon  the 
outside.  The  tiled  roof  had  long  been  the  sport  of 
wind  and  rain,  the  motley  coat  of  plaster  was  broken 
and  time-worn,  and  the  whole  building  sadly  out  of  re 
pair  ;  though  the  fanciful  mouldings  under  the  eaves, 
and  the  curious  carved  wood-work  that  supported  the 
little  balcony  over  the  principal  entrance,  spoke  of 
better  days  gone  by.  The  whole  building  reminded 
me  of  a  dilapidated  Spanish  Don,  down  at  the  heel 
and  out  at  elbows,  but  with  here  and  there  a  remnant 
of  former  magnificence  peeping  through  the  loopholes 
of  his  tattered  cloak. 

A  wide  gateway  ushered  the  traveller  into  the  inte 
rior  of  the  building,  and  conducted  him  to  a  low-roofed 
apartment,  paved  with  round  stones,  and  serving  both 
as  a  courtyard  and  a  stable.  It  seemed  to  be  a  neutral 
ground  for  man  and  beast,  —  a  little  republic,  where 
horse  and  rider  had  common  privileges,  and  mule  and 
muleteer  lay  cheek  by  jowl.  In  one  corner  a  poor 
jackass  was  patiently  devouring  a  bundle  of  musty 
straw,  —  in  another,  its  master  lay  sound  asleep,  with 
his  saddle-cloth  for  a  pillow ;  here  a  group  of  muleteers 
were  quarrelling  over  a  pack  of  dirty  cards, — and 
there  the  village  barber,  with  a  self-important  air, 
stood  laving  the  Alcalde's  chin  from  the  helmet  of 
Mambrino.  On  the  wall,  a  little  taper  glimmered 
feebly  before  an  image  of  St.  Anthony ;  directly  oppo 
site  these  a  leathern  wine-bottle  hung  by  the  neck 
from  a  pair  of  ox-horns ;  and  the  pavement  below  was 
covered  with  a  curious  medley  of  boxes,  and  bags,  and 
cloaks,  and  pack-saddles,  and  sacks  of  grain,  and  skins 
of  wine,  and  all  kinds  of  lumber. 


162      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

A  small  door  upon  the  right  led  us  into  the  inn- 
kitchen.  It  was  a  room  about  ten  feet  square,  and 
literally  all  chimney  ;  for  the  hearth  was  in  the  centre 
of  the  floor,  and  the  walls  sloped  upward  in  the  form 
of  a  long,  narrow  pyramid,  with  an  opening  at  the  top 
for  the  escape  of  the  smoke.  Quite  round  this  little 
room  ran  a  row  of  benches,  upon  which  sat  one  or 
two  grave  personages  smoking  paper  cigars.  Upon 
the  hearth  blazed  a  handful  of  fagots,  whose  bright 
flame  danced  merrily  among  a  motley  congregation  of 
pots  and  kettles,  and  a  long  wreath  of  smoke  wound 
lazily  up  through  the  huge  tunnel  of  the  roof  above. 
The  walls  were  black  with  soot,  and  ornamented  with 
sundry  legs  of  bacon  and  festoons  of  sausages ;  and  as 
there  were  no  windows  in  this  dingy  abode,  the  only 
light  which  cheered  the  darkness  within  came  flicker 
ing  from  the  fire  upon  the  hearth,  and  the  smoky  sun 
beams  that  peeped  down  the  long-necked  chimney. 

I  had  not  been  long  seated  by  the  fire,  when  the 
tinkling  of  mule-bells,  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  the 
hoarse  voice  of  a  muleteer  in  the  outer  apartment,  an 
nounced  the  arrival  of  new  guests.  A  few  moments 
afterward  the  kitchen-door  opened,  and  a  person  en 
tered,  whose  appearance  strongly  arrested  my  atten 
tion.  It  was  a  tall,  athletic  figure,  with  the  majestic 
carriage  of  a  grandee,  and  a  dark,  sunburnt  counte 
nance,  that  indicated  an  age  of  about  fifty  years.  His 
dress  was  singular,  and  such  as  I  had  not  before  seen. 
He  wore  a  round  hat  with  wide,  flapping  brim,  from 
beqeath  which  his  long,  black  hair  hung  in  curls  upon 
his  shoulders ;  a  leather  jerkin,  with  cloth  sleeves,  de 
scended  to  his  hips ;  around  his  waist  was  closely 
buckled  a  leather  belt,  with  a  cartouch-box  on  one 
side ;  r,  pair  of  loose  trousers  of  black  serge  hung  in 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN.  163 

ample  folds  to  the  knees,  around  which  they  were 
closely  gathered  by  embroidered  garters  of  blue  silk  ; 
and  black  broadcloth  leggins,  buttoned  close  to  the 
calves,  and  strapped  over  a  pair  of  brown  leather 
shoes,  completed  the  singular  dress  of  the  stranger. 
He  doffed  his  hat  as  he  entered,  and,  saluting  the 
company  with  a  "  Dios  guarde  d  ustedes,  caballeros  " 
(God  guard  you,  gentlemen),  took  a  seat  by  the  fire, 
and  entered  into  conversation  with  those  around  him. 

As  my  curiosity  was  not  a  little  excited  by  the 
peculiar  dress  of  this  person,  I  inquired  of  a  travel 
ling  companion,  who  sat  at  my  elbow,  who  and  what 
this  new-comer  was.  From  him  I  learned  that  he  was 
a  muleteer  of  the  Maragateria,  —  a  name  given  to  a 
cluster  of  small  towns  which  lie  in  the  mountainous 
country  between  Astorga  and  Villaf ranca,  in  the  west 
ern  corner  of  the  kingdom  of  Leon. 

"  Nearly  every  province  in  Spain,"  said  he,  "  has  its 
peculiar  costume,  as  you  will  see,  when  you  have  ad 
vanced  farther  into  our  country.  For  instance,  the 
Catalonians  wear  crimson  caps,  hanging  down  upon 
the  shoulder  like  a  sack  ;  wide  pantaloons  of  green 
velvet,  long  enough  in  the  waistband  to  cover  the 
whole  breast ;  and  a  little  strip  of  a  jacket,  made  of 
the  same  material,  and  so  short  as  to  bring  the  pocket 
directly  under  the  armpit.  The  Valencians,  on  the 
contrary,  go  almost  naked :  a  linen  shirt,  white  linen 
trousers,  reaching  no  lower  than  the  knees,  and  a  pair 
of  coarse  leather  sandals  complete  their  simple  garb  ; 
it  is  only  in  midwinter  that  they  indulge  in  the  luxury 
of  a  jacket.  The  most  beautiful  and  expensive  cos 
tume,  however,  is  that  of  Andalusia ;  it  consists  of  a 
velvet  jacket,  faced  .with  rich  and  various-colored  em 
broidery,  and  covered  with  tassels  and  silken  cord  ;  a 


164      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

waistcoat  of  some  gay  color;  a  silken  handkerchief 
round  the  neck,  and  a  crimson  sash  round  the  waist ; 
breeches  that  button  down  each  side ;  gaiters  and 
shoes  of  white  leather  ;  and  a  handkerchief  of  bright- 
colored  silk  wound  about  the  head  like  a  turban,  and 
surmounted  by  a  velvet  cap  or  a  little  round  hat,  with 
a  wide  band,  and  an  abundance  of  silken  loops  and 
tassels.  The  Old  Castilians  are  more  grave  in  their 
attire :  they  wear  a  leather  breastplate  instead  of  a 
jacket,  breeches  and  leggins,  and  a  montera  cap.  This 
fellow  is  a  Maragato ;  and  in  the  villages  of  the  Mar- 
agateria  the  costume  varies  a  little  from  the  rest  of 
Leon  and  Castile." 

"  If  he  is  indeed  a  Maragato,"  said  I,  jestingly, 
"who  knows  but  he  may  be  a  descendant  of  the 
muleteer  who  behaved  so  naughtily  at  Cacabelos,  as 
related  in  the  second  chapter  of  the  veracious  history 
of  Gil  Bias  de  Santillana?" 

"  I  Quien  sabe  ?  "  1  was  the  reply.  "  Notwithstand 
ing  the  pride  which  even  the  meanest  Castilian  feels 
in  counting  over  a  long  line  of  good-for-nothing  ances 
tors,  the  science  of  genealogy  has  become  of  late  a 
very  intricate  study  in  Spain." 

Here  our  conversation  was  cut  short  by  the  Mayoral 
of  the  diligence,  who  came  to  tell  us  that  mules  were 

o 

waiting  ;  and  before  many  hours  had  elapsed  we  were 
scrambling  through  the  square  of  the  ancient  city  of 
Burjros.  On  the  morrow  we  crossed  the  river  Duero 

o 

and  the  Guadarrama  Mountains,  and  early  in  the 
afternoon  entered  the  "  Heroica  Villa,"  of  Madrid,  by 
the  Puerta  de  Fuencarral. 

1  In  Spanish  use  an  inverted  interrogation  mark  precedes  a 
question. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


INTRODUCTION. 

THE  circumstances  attending  the  production  of  most  of 
Whittier's  prose  writings  have  not  been  favorable  to  sus 
tained  composition.  Much  of  his  work  has  been  in  the  form 
of  contributions  to  journals  which  he  has  edited,  and  the 
three  volumes  which  now  constitute  his  collected  prose 
writings  have  been  gathered  from  these  occasional  papers, 
the  only  extended  work  being  in  Leaves  from  Margaret 
Smith's  Journal,  an  imitative  work,  suggested,  no  doubt,  by 
the  successful  Lady  Willoughby's  Diary.  In  that  work  he 
has  given  a  picture  of  the  New  England  of  the  last  quarter 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  when  a  heroic  life  had  become 
somewhat  hardened  by  prosperity  and  authority  into  intol 
erance,  and  the  superstitious  alloy  of  religious  life  had 
become  prominent  by  the  decline  of  a  living  faith.  Him 
self  of  Quaker  descent  and  belief,  he  has  touched  kindly  but 
firmly  the  changing  life  of  the  day  which  culminated  in  the 
witchcraft  delusion  and  displayed  itself  in  the  persecution  of 
the  Quakers.  Yet  the  best  life  of  the  day,  whether  Puritan 
or  Quaker,  is  reproduced  in  the  book,  and  the  changing  ele 
ments  of  a  transition  period  are  all  clearly  presented.  The 
studied  and  imitative  form  of  the  book  prevents  it  from 
enjoying  a  wide  popularity,  but  the  genuineness  of  the  spirit, 
and  the  graceful  style  in  which  the  Puritan  maiden's  diary 
is  preserved  render  it  one  of  the  best  mediums  for  approach 
ing  a  difficult  period  of  New  England  history.  The  reader 
will  find  it  interesting  to  compare  with  it  the  historical 


166  JOHN  GREEN  LEAF  WHITTIER. 

record  of  Robert  Pike,  presented  in  The  New  Puritan*  a 
sketch  by  James  S.  Pike. 

The  subjects  which  are  prominent  in  Whittier's  verse 
appear  also  in  his  prose.  The  superstitions  of  New  Eng 
land  were  treated  of  by  him  in  a  small  volume  which  has 
not  been  kept  in  print,  The  Supernaturalism  of  New  Eng 
land;  the  heroic  lives  of  men  and  women  content  to  be  true 
to  duty  and  God,  and  gaining  their  distinction  often  by 
their  patience  under  suffering,  are  reproduced  in  a  series  of 
papers  entitled  Old  Portraits  and  Modern  Sketches ;  the 
homely  beauty  of  a  life  of  toil  is  recorded  in  the  papers 
which  make  up  the  little  volume,  The  Stranger  in  Lowell, 
'  which  was  published  in  1845  and  has  since  been  merged,  in 
part,  in  the  first  volume  of  his  prose  works,  under  the  gen 
eral  title  of  Tales  and  Sketches.  He  was  engaged  at  this 
time  in  the  conduct  of  a  paper  in  Lowell,  and  the  life  about 
him  suggested  occasional  essays  upon  topics  free  from  poli 
tical  feeling;  two  of  the  papers  then  published  are  here  given, 
and  they  serve  in  a  measure  to  illustrate  his  interest  in  life 
and  history,  for  an  unfailing  attribute  of  his  writing  has  been 
his  sympathy  with  homely  forms  of  life  about  him  ;  and  the 
interest  which  he  has  shown  in  that  part  of  history  which 
deals  with  the  relations  of  the  Indian  to  the  white  man.  may 
be  referred  in  part  to  his  traditional  Quaker  principle,  in 
part  to  his  instinctive  championship  of  the  weak  and 
wronged.  In  a  prefatory  note  to  one  of  his  prose  volumes 
he  speaks  lightly  of  his  work,  which,  as  there  given,  was 
rather  a  relief  from  severer  tasks  than  itself  serious  and 
deliberate,  but  the  spirit  which  pervades  all  his  writings, 
whether  in  prose  or  in  verse,  is  the  same,  and  the  recrea 
tions  of  a  man  of  serious  and  simple  purpose  rarely  fail  to 
disclose  his  character  and  temper.  The  absence  of  mere 

1  The  New  Puritan.  New  England  two  hundred  years  ago. 
Some  account  of  the  life  of  Robert  Pike,  the  Puritan  who  de 
fended  the  Quakers,  resisted  clerical  domination,  and  opposed 
the  witchcraft  persecution.  By  James  S.  Pike.  New  York, 
Harper  and  Brothers,  1879. 


INTRODUCTION.  167 

moods  in  Whittier's  writings  is  a  singular  testimony  to  the 
elevation  of  his  common  thought,  and  the  simplicity  of  his 
aims  in  literature  appears  quite  as  significantly  in  his  desul 
tory  prose  as  in  his  more  deliberate  poetry.  At  no  time 
does  the  reader  seem  to  pass  out  of  the  presence  of  an  ear 
nest  man  into  that  of  a  professional  litterateur  ;  the  care 
lessness  of  literary  fame  which  Whittier  has  shown  may  he 
referred  to  the  sincerity  of  his  devotion  to  that  which  litera 
ture  effects,  and  he  has  written  and  sung  out  of  a  heart  very 
much  in  earnest  to  offer  some  help,  or  out  of  the  pleasure 
of  his  work.  The  careful  student  of  his  writings  will  always 
value  most  the  integrity  of  his  life. 


YANKEE  GYPSIES. 

"  Here  's  to  budgets,  packs,  and  wallets ; 
Here 's  to  all  the  wandering  train." 

BURNS.1 

I  CONFESS  it,  I  am  keenly  sensitive  to  "  skyey  in 
fluences."  2  I  profess  no  indifference  to  the  move 
ments  of  that  capricious  old  gentleman  known  as  the 
clerk  of  the  weather.  I  cannot  conceal  my  interest  in 
the  behavior  of  that  patriarchal  bird  whose  wooden 
similitude  gyrates  on  the  church  spire.  Winter 
proper  is  well  enough.  Let  the  thermometer  go  to 
zero  if  it  will ;  so  much  the  better,  if  thereby  the  very 
winds  are  frozen  and  unable  to  flap  their  stiff  wings. 
Sounds  of  bells  in  the  keen  air,  clear,  musical,  heart- 
inspiring  ;  quick  tripping  of  fair  moccasined  feet  on 
glittering  ice  pavements  ;  bright  eyes  glancing  above 
the  uplifted  muff  like  a  sultana's  behind  the  folds  of 
her  yashmak  ;  3  schoolboys  coasting  down  street  like 

1  From  the  closing  air  in  The  Jolly  Beggars,  a  cantata. 

"  A  breath  tho^u  art 
Servile  to  all  the  skyey  influences, 
That  dost  this  habitation,  where  thou  keep'st, 
Hourly  afflict." 

Shakespeare  :  Measure  for  Measure,  act  III.  scene  1. 
8  "  She  turns  and  turns  again,  and  carefully  glances  around 
her  on  all  sides,  to  see  that  she  is  safe  from  the  eyes  of  Mussul 
mans,  and  then  suddenly  withdrawing  the  yashmak  she  shines 
upon  your  heart  and  soul  with  all  the  pomp  and  might  of  her 
beauty."  Kinglake's  Eothen,  chap.  iii.  In  a  note  to  Yashmak 


YANKEE   GYPSIES.  169 

mad  Greenlanders  ;  the  cold  brilliance  of  oblique  sun 
beams  flashing  back  from  wide  surfaces  of  glittering 
snow,  or  blazing  upon  ice  jewelry  of  tree  and  roof : 
there  is  nothing  in  all  this  to  complain  of.  A  storm 
of  summer  has  its  redeeming  sublimities,  —  its  slow, 
upheaving  mountains  of  cloud  glooming  in  the  west 
ern  horizon  like  new-created  volcanoes,  veined  with 
fire,  shattered  by  exploding  thunders.  Even  the  wild 
gales  of  the  equinox  have  their  varieties,  —  sounds  of 
wind-shaken  woods  and  waters,  creak  and  clatter  of 
sign  and  casement,  hurricane  puffs,  and  down-rushing 
rain-spouts.  But  this  dull,  dark  autumn  day  of  thaw 
and  rain,  when  the  very  clouds  seem  too  spiritless  and 
languid  to  storm  outright  or  take  themselves  out  of 
the  way  of  fair  weather ;  wet  beneath  and  above, 
reminding  one  of  that  rayless  atmosphere  of  Dante's 
Third  Circle,  where  the  infernal  Priessnitz  1  adminis 
ters  his  hydropathic  torment,  — 

"  A  heavy,  curse'd,  and  relentless  drench,  — 
The  land  it  soaks  is  putrid  ;  " 

or  rather,  as  everything  animate  and  inanimate  is 
seething  in  warm  mist,  suggesting  the  idea  that  Na 
ture,  grown  old  and  rheumatic,  is  trying  the  efficacy 
of  a  Thomsonian  steam-box 2  on  a  grand  scale ;  no 

Kinglake  explains  that  it  is  not  a  mere  semi-transparent  veil, 
but  thoroughly  conceals  all  the  features  except  the  eyes  :  it  ia 
withdrawn  by  being  pulled  down. 

1  Vincenz   Priessnitz  was  the  originator   of   the  water-cure. 
After  experimenting  upon  himself  and  his  neighbors  he  took  up 
the  profession  of  hydropathy  and  established  baths  at  his  native 
place,  Grafenberg  in  Silesia,  in  1829.     He  died  in  1851. 

2  Dr.  Samuel  Thomson,  a  New  Hampshire  physician,  advo^ 
cated  the  use  of  the  steam  bath  as  a  restorer  of  the  system  when 
diseased.     He  died  in  1843  and  left  behind  an  autobiography 
(Life,  and  Medical  Discoveries)  which  contains  a  record  of  the 
persecutions  he  underwent. 


170  JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

sounds  save  the  heavy  plash  of  muddy  feet  on  the 
pavements ;  the  monotonous,  melancholy  drip  from 
trees  and  roofs ;  the  distressful  gurgling  of  water- 
ducts,  swallowing  the  dirty  amalgam  of  the  gutters ; 
a  dim,  leaden-colored  horizon  of  only  a  few  yards  in 
diameter,  shutting  down  about  one,  beyond  which 
nothing  is  visible  save  in  faint  line  or  dark  projection  ; 
the  ghost  of  a  church  spire  or  the  eidolon  of  a  chim 
ney-pot,  —  he  who  can  extract  pleasurable  emotions 
from  the  alembic  of  such  a  day  has  a  trick  of  alchemy 
with  which  I  am  wholly  unacquainted. 

Hark  !  a  rap  at  my  door.  Welcome  anybody  just 
now.  One  gains  nothing  by  attempting  to  shut  out 
the  sprites  of  the  weather.  They  come  in  at  the  key 
hole  ;  they  peer  through  the  dripping  panes ;  they 
insinuate  themselves  through  the  crevices  of  the  case 
ment,  or  plump  down  chimney  astride  of  the  rain 
drops. 

I  rise  and  throw  open  the  door.  A  tall,  shambling, 
loose-jointed  figure  ;  a  pinched,  shrewd  face,  sun-brown 
and  wind-dried ;  small,  quick-winking  black  eyes,  — 
there  he  stands,  the  water  dripping  from  his  pulpy 
hat  and  ragged  elbows. 

I  speak  to  him ;  but  he  returns  no  answer.  With 
a  dumb  show  of  misery,  quite  touching,  he  hands 
me  a  soiled  piece  of  parchment,  whereon  I  read  what 
purports  to  be  a  melancholy  account  of  shipwreck 
and  disaster,  to  the  particular  detriment,  loss,  and 
damnification  of  one  Pietro  Frugoni,  who  is,  in  conse 
quence,  sorely  in  want  of  the  alms  of  all  charitable 
Christian  persons,  and  who  is,  in  short,  the  bearer 
of  this  veracious  document,  duly  certified  and  in 
dorsed  by  an  Italian  consul  in  one  of  our  Atlantic 
cities,  of  a  high-sounding,  but  to  Yankee  organs  un 
pronounceable,  name. 


YANKEE  GYPSIES.  171 

Here  commences  a  struggle.  Every  man,  the  Ma 
hometans  tell  us,  has  two  attendant  angels,  —  the 
good  one  on  his  right  shoulder,  the  bad  on  his  left. 
"  Give,"  says  Benevolence,  as  with  some  difficulty  I 
fish  up  a  small  coin  from  the  depths  of  my  pocket. 
"  Not  a  cent,"  says  selfish  Prudence  ;  and  I  drop  it 
from  my  fingers.  "  Think,"  says  the  good  angel,  "  of 
the  poor  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  just  escaped  from 
the  terrors  of  the  sea-storm,  in  which  his  little  prop 
erty  has  perished,  thrown  half-naked  and  helpless  on 
our  shores,  ignorant  of  our  language,  and  unable  to 
find  employment  suited  to  his  capacity."  "  A  vile  im 
postor  !  "  replies  the  left-hand  sentinel ;  "  his  paper 
purchased  from  one  of  those  ready-writers  in  New  York 
who  manufacture  beggar-credentials  at  the  low  price 
of  one  dollar  per  copy,  with  earthquakes,  fires,  or  ship 
wrecks,  to  suit  customers." 

Amidst  this  confusion  of  tongues  I  take  another 
survey  of  my  visitant.  Ha  !  a  light  dawns  upon  me. 
That  shrewd,  old  face,  with  its  sharp,  winking  eyes,  is 
no  stranger  to  me.  Pietro  Frugoni,  I  have  seen  thee 
before.  /S7,  signor,  that  face  of  thine  has  looked  at 
me  over  a  dirty  white  neckcloth,  with  the  corners  of 
that  cunning  mouth  drawn  downwards,  and  those 
small  eyes  turned  up  in  sanctimonious  gravity,  while 
thou  wast  offering  to  a  crowd  of  half-grown  boys  an 
extemporaneous  exhortation  in  the  capacity  of  a  travel 
ling  preacher.  Have  I  not  seen  it  peering  out  from 
under  a  blanket,  as  that  of  a  poor  Penobscot  Indian, 
who  had  lost  the  use  of  his  hands  while  trapping  on 
the  Madawaska?  Is  it  not  the  face  of  the  forlorn 
father  of  six  small  children,  whom  the  "  marcury  doc 
tors  "  had  "  pisened  "  and  crippled  ?  Did  it  not  be 
long  to  that  down-east  unfortunate  who  had  been 


172  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

out  to  the  "  Genesee  country  "  1  and  got  the  "  fevern- 
nager,"  and  whose  hand  shook  so  pitifully  when  held 
out  to  receive  my  poor  gift  ?  The  same,  under  all 
disguises,  —  Stephen  Leathers,  of  Barrington,  —  him, 
and  none  other  !  Let  me  conjure  him  into  his  own 
likeness  :  — 

"  Well,  Stephen,  what  news  from  old  Barrington  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  I  thought  I  knew  ye,"  he  answers,  not 
the  least  disconcerted.  "  How  do  you  do  ?  and  how  's 
your  folks  ?  All  well,  I  hope.  I  took  this  'ere  paper, 
you  see,  to  help  a  poor  f  urriner,  who  could  n't  make 
himself  understood  any  more  than  a  wild  goose.  I 
thought  I  'd  just  start  him  for'ard  a  little.  It  seemed 
a  marcy  to  do  it." 

Well  and  shiftily  answered,  thou  ragged  Proteus. 
One  cannot  be  angry  with  such  a  fellow.  I  will  just 
inquire  into  the  present  state  of  his  Gospel  mission 
and  about  the  condition  of  his  tribe  on  the  Penobscot ; 
and  it  may  be  not  amiss  to  congratulate  him  on  the 
success  of  the  steam-doctors  in  sweating  the  "  pisen  " 
of  the  regular  faculty  out  of  him.  But  he  evidently 
has  no  wish  to  enter  into  idle  conversation.  Intent 
upon  his  benevolent  errand  he  is  already  clattering 
down  stairs.  Involuntarily  I  glance  out  of  the  win 
dow  just  in  season  to  catch  a  single  glimpse  of  him 
ere  he  is  swallowed  up  in  the  mist. 

He  has  gone ;  and,  knave  as  he  is,  I  can  hardly 
help  exclaiming,  "  Luck  go  with  him ! "  He  has 

1  The  Genesee  country  is  the  name  by  which  the  western  part 
of  New  York,  bordering  on  Lakes  Ontario  and  Erie,  was  known, 
•when,  at  the  close  of  the  last  and  beginning  of  this  century,  it 
was  to  people  on  the  Atlantic  coast  the  Great  West.  In  1792 
communication  was  opened  by  a  road  with  the  Pennsylvania 
settlements,  but  the  early  settlers  were  almost  all  from  New 
England. 


YANKEE   GYPSIES.  173 

broken  in  upon  the  sombre  train  of  my  thoughts  and 
called  up  before  me  pleasant  and  grateful  recollec 
tions.  The  old  farm-house  nestling  in  its  valley ; 
hills  stretching  off  to  the  south  and  green  meadows  to 
the  east ;  the  small  stream  which  came  noisily  down 
its  ravine,  washing  the  old  garden-wall  and  softly  lap 
ping  on  fallen  stones  and  mossy  roots  of  beeches  and 
hemlocks ;  the  tall  sentinel  poplars  at  the  gateway ; 
the  oak-forest,  sweeping  unbroken  to  the  northern  ho 
rizon  ;  the  grass-grown  carriage-path,  with  its  rude 
and  crazy  bridge,  —  the  dear  old  landscape  of  my 
boyhood  lies  outstretched  before  me  like  a  daguerreo 
type  from  that  picture  within,  which  I  have  borne 
with  me  in  all  my  wanderings.  I  am  a  boy  again, 
once  more  conscious  of  the  feeling,  half  terror,  half 
exultation,  with  which  I  used  to  announce  the  ap 
proach  of  this  very  vagabond  and  his  "  kindred  after 
the  flesh." 

The  advent  of  wandering  beggars,  or  "old  strag 
glers,"  as  we  were  wont  to  call  them,  was  an  event 
of  no  ordinary  interest  in  the  generally  monotonous 
quietude  of  our  farm-life.  Many  of  them  were 
well  known ;  they  had  their  periodical  revolutions 
and  transits  ;  we  would  calculate  them  like  eclipses 
or  new  moons.  Some  were  sturdy  knaves,  fat  and 
saucy ;  and,  whenever  they  ascertained  that  the  "  men 
folks  "  were  absent,  would  order  provisions  and  cider 
like  men  who  expected  to  pay  for  them,  seating  them 
selves  at  the  hearth  or  table  with  the  air  of  Fal- 
staff,  —  "  Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ?  " 
Others,  poor,  pale,  patient,  like  Sterne's  monk,1  came 
creeping  up  to  the  door,  hat  in  hand,  standing  there 

1  Whom  he  met  at  Calais,  as  described  in  his  Sentimental 
Journey. 


174  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

in  their  gray  wretchedness  with  a  look  of  heartbreak 
and  forlornness  which  was  never  without  its  effect  on 
our  juvenile  sensibilities.  At  times,  however,  we  ex 
perienced  a  slight  revulsion  of  feeling  when  even  these 
humblest  children  of  sorrow  somewhat  petulantly  re 
jected  our  proffered  bread  and  cheese,  and  demanded 
instead  a  glass  of  cider.  Whatever  the  temperance 
society  might  in  such  cases  have  done,  it  was  not  in 
our  hearts  to  refuse  the  poor  creatures  a  draught  of 
their  favorite  beverage ;  and  was  n't  it  a  satisfaction 
to  see  their  sad,  melancholy  faces  light  up  as  we 
handed  them  the  full  pitcher,  and,  on  receiving  it  back 
empty  from  their  brown,  wrinkled  hands,  to  hear  them, 
half  breathless  from  their  long,  delicious  draught, 
thanking  us  for  the  favor,  as  "  dear,  good  children  "  ! 
Not  unfrequently  these  wandering  tests  of  our  benev 
olence  made  their  appearance  in  interesting  groups  of 
man,  woman,  and  child,  picturesque  in  their  squalid- 
ness,  and  manifesting  a  maudlin  affection  which  would 
have  done  honor  to  the  revellers  at  Poosie-Nansie's, 
immortal  in  the  cantata  of  Burns.1  I  remember  some 
who  were  evidently  the  victims  of  monomania,  — - 
haunted  and  hunted  by  some  dark  thought,  —  pos 
sessed  by  a  fixed  idea.  One,  a  black-eyed,  wild-haired 
woman,  with  a  whole  tragedy  of  sin,  shame,  and  suf 
fering  written  in  her  countenance,  used  often  to  visit 
us,  warm  herself  by  our  winter  fire,  and  supply  herself 

1  The  cantata  is  The  Jolly  Beggars,  from  which  the  motto 
heading  this  sketch  was  taken.  Poosie-Nansie  was  the  keeper 
of  a  tavern  in  Mauchline,  which  was  the  favorite  resort  of  the 
lame  sailors,  maimed  soldiers,  travelling  ballad-singers,  and  ali 
such  loose  companions  as  hang  about  the  skirts  of  society.  The 
cantata  has  for  its  theme  the  rivalry  of  a  "  pigmy  scraper  with 
his  fiddle"  and  a  strolling  tinker  for  a  beggar  woman  :  hence 
the  maudlin  affection. 


YANKEE  GYPSIES.  175 

with  a  stock  of  cakes  and  cold  meat ;  but  was  never 
known  to  answer  a  question  or  to  ask  one.  She  never 
smiled  ;  the  cold,  stony  look  of  her  eye  never  changed ; 
a  silent,  impassive  face,  ft-ozen  rigid  by  some  great 
wrong  or  sin.  We  used  to  look  with  awe  upon  the 
"  still  woman,"  and  think  of  the  demoniac  of  Scrip 
ture  who  had  a  "  dumb  spirit." 

One  —  I  think  I  see  him  now,  grim,  gaunt,  and 
ghastly,  working  his  slow  way  up  to  our  door  —  used 
to  gather  herbs  by  the  wayside  and  called  himself  doc 
tor.  He  was  bearded  like  a  he-goat,  and  used  to 
counterfeit  lameness ;  yet,  when  he  supposed  himself 
alone,  would  travel  on  lustily,  as  if  walking  for  a 
wager.  At  length,  as  if  in  punishment  of  his  deceit, 
he  met  with  an  accident  in  his  rambles  and  became 
lame  in  earnest,  hobbling  ever  after  with  difficulty  on 
his  gnarled  crutches.  Another  used  to  go  stooping, 
like  Bunyan's  pilgrim,  under  a  pack  made  of  an  old 
bed-sacking,  stuffed  out  into  most  plethoric  dimen 
sions,  tottering  on  a  pair  of  small,  meagre  legs,  and 
peering  out  with  his  wild,  hairy  face  from  under  his 
burden  like  a  big-bodied  spider.  That  "  man  with  the 
pack "  always  inspired  me  with  awe  and  reverence. 
Huge,  almost  sublime,  in  its  tense  rotundity,  the  fa 
ther  of  all  packs,  never  laid  aside  and  never  opened, 
what  might  there  not  be  within  it  ?  With  what  flesh- 
creeping  curiosity  I  used  to  walk  round  about  it  at 
a  safe  distance,  half  expecting  to  see  its  striped  cover 
ing  stirred  by  the  motions  of  a  mysterious  life,  or  that 
some  evil  monsters  would  leap  out  of  it,  like  robbers 
from  Ali  Baba's  jars  or  armed  men  from  the  Trojan 
horse ! 

There  was  another  class  of  peripatetic  philosophers 
—  half  pedler,  half  mendicant —  who  were  in  the  habifc 


176  JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITT1ER. 

of  visiting  us.  One  we  recollect,  a  lame,  unshaven, 
sinister-eyed,  unwholesome  fellow,  with  his  basket  of 
old  newspapers  and  pamphlets,  and  his  tattered  blue 
umbrella,  serving  rather  as»  a  walking-staff  than  as  a 
protection  from  the  rain.  He  told  us  on  one  occasion, 
in  answer  to  our  inquiring  into  the  cause  of  his  lame 
ness,  that  when  a  young  man  he  was  employed  on  the 
farm  of  the  chief  magistrate  of  a  neighboring  State ; 
where,  as  his  ill  luck  would  have  it,  the  governor's 
handsome  daughter  fell  in  love  with  him.  He  was 
caught  one  day  in  the  young  lady's  room  by  her 
father  ;  whereupon  the  irascible  old  gentleman  pitched 
him  unceremoniously  out  of  the  window,  laming  him 
for  life,  on  a  brick  pavement  below,  like  Vulcan  on 
the  rocks  of  Lemnos.1  As  for  the  lady,  he  assured  us 
"  she  took  on  dreadfully  about  it."  "  Did  she  die  ?  " 
we  inquired,  anxiously.  There  was  a  cunning  twinkle 
in  the  old  rogue's  eye  as  he  responded,  "  Well,  no, 
she  did  n't.  She  got  married." 

Twice  a  year,  usually  in  the  spring  and  autumn,  we 
were  honored  with  a  call  from  Jonathan  Plummer, 
maker  of  verses,  pedler  and  poet,  physician  and  par 
son,  —  a  Yankee  troubadour,  —  first  and  last  minstrel 
of  the  valley  of  the  Merrimac,  encircled,  to  my  won 
dering  young  eyes,  with  the  very  nimbus  of  immor 
tality.  He  brought  with  him  pins,  needles,  tape,  and 
cotton-thread  for  my  mother ;  jack-knives,  razors,  and 
soap  for  my  father  ;  and  verses  of  his  own  composing, 
coarsely  printed  and  illustrated  with  rude  wood-cuts, 
for  the  delectation  of  the  'younger  branches  of  the 
family.  No  love-sick  youth  could  drown  himself,  nov 

1  It  was  upon  the  Isle  of  Lemnos  that  Vnlcan  was  flung  by 
Jupiter,  according  to  the  myth,  for  attempting  to  aid  his  mother 
Juno. 


YANKEE  GYPSIES.  177 

deserted  maiden  bewail  the  moon,  no  rogue  mount  the 
gallows,  without  fitting  memorial  in  Plummer's  verses. 
Earthquakes,  fires,  fevers,  and  shipwrecks  he  regarded 
as  personal  favors  from  Providence,  furnishing  the 
raw  material  of  song  and  ballad.  Welcome  to  us  in 
our  country  seclusion,  as  Autolycus  to  the  clown  in 
"  Winter's  Tale,"  1  we  listened  with  infinite  satisfac 
tion  to  his  reading  of  his  own  verses,  or  to  his  ready 
improvisation  upon  some  domestic  incident  or  topic 
suggested  by  his  auditors.  When  once  fairly  over  the 
difficulties  at  the  outset  of  a  new  subject  his  rhymes 
flowed  freely,  "  as  if  he  had  eaten  ballads,  and  all 
men's  ears  grew  to  his  tunes."  His  productions 
answered,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  to  Shake 
speare's  description  of  a  proper  ballad,  —  "  doleful 
matter  merrily  set  down,  or  a  very  pleasant  theme  sung 
lamentably."  He  was  scrupulously  conscientious,  de 
vout,  inclined  to  theological  disquisitions,  and  withal 
mighty  in  Scripture.  He  was  thoroughly  indepen 
dent  ;  flattered  nobody,  cared  for  nobody,  trusted  no 
body.  When  invited  to  sit  down  at  our  dinner-table 
he  invariably  took  the  precaution  to  place  his  basket 
of  valuables  between  his  legs  for  safe  keeping.  "  Never 
mind  thy  basket,  Jonathan,"  said  my  father ;  "  we 
shan't  steal  thy  verses."  "  I  'm  not  sure  of  that," 
returned  the  suspicious  guest.  "  It  is  written,  '  Trust 
ye  not  in  any  brother.'  " 

Thou,  too,  O  Parson  B.,  —  with  thy  pale  student's 
brow  and  rubicund  nose,  with  thy  rusty  and  tattered 

1  "He  could  never  come  better,"  says  the  clown  in  Shake 
speare's  The  Winter's  Tale,  when  Autolycus,  the  pedler,  is  an 
nounced  ;  "he  shall  come  in.  I  love  a  ballad  but  even  too 
well,  if  it  be  doleful  matter  merrily  set  down,  or  a  very  pleasant 
tiling  indeed  and  sung  lamentably."  Act  IV.  scene  4. 


178  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

black  coat  overswept  by  white,  flowing  locks,  with  thy 
professional  white  neckcloth  scrupulously  preserved 
when  even  a  shirt  to  thy  back  was  problematical,  — 
art  by  no  means  to  be  overlooked  in  the  muster-roll  of 
vagrant  gentlemen  possessing  the  entrSe  of  our  farm 
house.  Well  do  we  remember  with  what  grave  and 
dignified  courtesy  he  used  to  step  over  its  threshold, 
saluting  its  inmates  with  the  same  air  of  gracious  con 
descension  and  patronage  with  which  in  better  days 
he  had  delighted  the  hearts  of  his  parishioners.  Poor 
old  man  !  He  had  once  been  the  admired  and  almost 
worshipped  minister  of  the  largest  church  in  the  town 
where  he  afterwards  found  support  in  the  winter  sea 
son,  as  a  pauper.  He  had  early  fallen  into  intemper 
ate  habits  ;  and  at  the  age  of  three-score  and  ten,  when 
I  remember  him,  he  was  only  sober  when  he  lacked 
the  means  of  being  otherwise.  Drunk  or  sober,  how 
ever,  he  never  altogether  forgot  the  proprieties  of  his 
profession ;  he  was  always  grave,  decorous,  and  gen 
tlemanly  ;  he  held  fast  the  form  of  sound  words,  and 
the  weakness  of  the  flesh  abated  nothing  of  the  rigor 
of  his  stringent  theology.  He  had  been  a  favorite 
pupil  of  the  learned  and  astute  Emmons,1  and  was  to 
the  last  a  sturdy  defender  of  the  peculiar  dogmas  of 
his  school.  The  last  time  we  saw  him  he  was  holding 
a  meeting  in  our  district  school-house,  with  a  vaga 
bond  pedler  for  deacon  and  travelling  companion. 
The  tie  which  united  the  ill-assorted  couple  was  doubt- 

1  Nathaniel  Emmons  was  a  New  England  theologian  of  marked 
character  and  power,  who  for  seventy  years  was  connected  with 
a  church  in  that  part  of  Wrentham,  Mass.,  now  called  Franklin. 
He  exercised  considerable  influence  over  the  religious  thought  of 
New  England,  and  is  still  read  by  theologians.  He  died  in  184Q, 
in  his  ninety-sixth  year. 


YANKEE   GYPSIES.  179 

less  the  same  which  endeared  Tarn  O'Shanter  to  the 
souter : l  — 

"  They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither." 

He  took  for  his  text  the  first  seven  verses  of  the  con 
cluding  chapter  of  Ecclesiastes,  furnishing  in  himself 
its  fitting  illustration.  The  evil  days  had  come  ;  the 
keepers  of  the  house  trembled ;  the  windows  of  life 
were  darkened.  A  few  months  later  the  silver  cord 
was  loosed,  the  golden  bowl  was  broken,  and  between 
the  poor  old  man  and  the  temptations  which  beset  him 
fell  the  thick  curtains  of  the  grave. 

One  day  we  had  a  call  from  a  "  pawky  auld  carle  "  2 
of  a  wandering  Scotchman.  To  him  I  owe  my  first 
introduction  to  the  songs  of  Burns.  After  eating  his 
bread  and  cheese  and  drinking  his  mug  of  cider  he 
gave  us  Bonny  Doon,  Highland  Mary,  and  Auld  Lang 
Syne.  He  had  a  rich,  full  voice,  and  entered  heartily 
into  the  spirit  of  his  lyrics.  I  have  since  listened  to 
the  same  melodies  from  the  lips  of  Dempster  3  (than 
whom  the  Scottish  bard  has  had  no  sweeter  or  truer 
interpreter),  but  the  skilful  performance  of  the  artist 

1  Souter  (or  cobbler)  Johnny,  in  Burns's  poetic  tale  of  Tarn 
O'Shanter,  had  been  fou  or  full  of  drink  with  Tarn  for  weeks 
together. 

2  From  the  first  line  of  The  Gaberlunzie  Man,  attributed  to 
King  James  V.  of  Scotland,  — 

"The  pawky  auld  carle  came  o'er  the  lee." 

The  original  like  Whittier's  was  a  sly  old  fellow,  as  an  English 
phrase  would  translate  the  Scottish.  The  Gaberlunzie  Man  is 
given  in  Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry  and  in  Child's  Eng 
lish  and  Scottish  Ballads,  viii.  98. 

8  William  R.  Dempster,  a  Scottish  vocalist  who  had  recently 
sung  in  America,  and  whose  music  to  Burns's  song  "  A  man  's  a 
man  for  a'  that "  was  very  popular. 


180  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

lacked  the  novel  charm  of  the  gaberlunzie's  singing  in 
the  old  farmhouse  kitchen.  Another  wanderer  made 
us  acquainted  with  the  humorous  old  ballad  of  "  Our 
gude  man  cam  hame  at  e'en."  He  applied  for  supper 
and  lodging,  and  the  next  morning  was  set  at  work 
splitting  stones  in  the  pasture.  While  thus  engaged 
the  village  doctor  came  riding  along  the  highway  on 
his  fine,  spirited  horse,  and  stopped  to  talk  with  my 
father.  The  fellow  eyed  the  animal  attentively,  as  if 
familiar  with  all  his  good  points,  and  hummed  over  a 
stanza  of  the  old  poem  :  — 

"  Our  gude  man  cam  bame  at  e'en, 

And  hame  cam  he  ; 
And  there  he  saw  a  saddle  horse 

Where  nae  horse  should  be. 
'  How  cam  this  horse  here  ? 

How  can  it  be  ? 
How  cam  this  horse  here 

Without  the  leave  of  me  ? ' 
'  A  horse  ?  '  quo  she. 
'Ay,  a  horse,'  quo  he. 
*  Ye  auld  fool,  ye  blind  fool,  — 
And  blinder  might  ye  be,  — 
'T  is  naething  but  a  milking  cow 

My  mamma  sent  to  me.' 
'  A  milch  cow  ?  '  quo  he. 
'  Ay,  a  milch  cow,'  quo  she. 
'  Weel,  far  hae  I  ridden, 

And  muckle  hae  I  seen  ; 
But  milking  cows  wi'  saddles  on 
Saw  I  never  nane.'  "  1 

That  very  night  the  rascal  decamped,  taking  with 
him  the  doctor's  horse,  and  was  never  after  heard  of. 

Often,  in  the  gray  of  the  morning,  we  used  to  see 
one  or  more  "  gaberlunzie  men,"  pack  011  shoulder 

1  The  whole  of  this  song  may  be  found  in  Herd's  Ancient  and 
Modern  Scottish  Songs,  ii.  172. 


YANKEE   GYPSIES.  181 

and  staff  in  hand,  emerging  from  the  barn  or  other 
outbuildings  where  they  had  passed  the  night.  I  was 
once  sent  to  the  barn  to  fodder  the  cattle  late  in.  the 
evening,  and,  climbing  into  the  mow  to  pitch  down 
hay  for  that  purpose,  I  was  startled  by  the  sudden  ap 
parition  of  a  man  rising  up  before  me,  just  discernible 
in  the  dim  moonlight  streaming  through  the  seams  of 
the  boards.  I  made  a  rapid  retreat  down  the  ladder ; 
and  was  only  reassured  by  hearing  the  object  of  my 
terror  calling  after  me,  and  recognizing  his  voice  as 
that  of  a  harmless  old  pilgrim  whom  I  had  known  be 
fore.  Our  farmhouse  was  situated  in  a  lonely  valley, 
half  surrounded  with  woods,  with  no  neighbors  in 
sight.  One  dark,  cloudy  night,  when  our  parents 
chanced  to  be  absent,  we  were  sitting  with  our  aged 
grandmother  in  the  fading  light  of  the  kitchen  fire, 
working  ourselves  into  a  very  satisfactory  state  of 
excitement  and  terror  by  recounting  to  eacli  other 
all  the  dismal  stories  we  could  remember  of  ghosts, 
witches,  haunted  houses,  and  robbers,  when  we  were 
suddenly  startled  by  a  loud  rap  at  the  door.  A  strip 
ling  of  fourteen,  I  was  very  naturally  regarded  as  the 
head  of  the  household  ;  so,  with  many  misgivings,  1 
advanced  to  the  door,  which  I  slowly  opened,  holding 
the  candle  tremulously  above  my  head  and  peering 
out  into  the  darkness.  The  feeble  glimmer  played 
upon  the  apparition  of  a  gigantic  horseman,  mounted 
on  a  steed  of  a  size  worthy  of  such  a  rider,  —  colossal, 
motionless,  like  images  cut  out  of  the  solid  night. 
The  strange  visitant  gruffly  saluted  me ;  and,  after 
making  several  ineffectual  efforts  to  urge  his  horse  in 
at  the  door,  dismounted  and  followed  me  into  the 
room,  evidently  enjoying  the  terror  which  his  huge 
presence  excited.  Announcing  himself  as  the  great 


182  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

Indian  doctor,  he  drew  himself  up  before  the  fire, 
stretched  his  arms,  clinched  his  fists,  struck  his  broad 
chest,  and  invited  our  attention  to  what  he  called  his 
"  mortal  frame."  He  demanded  in  succession  all  kinds 
of  intoxicating  liquors  ;  and  on  being  assured  that  we 
had  none  to  give  him,  he  grew  angry,  threatened  to 
swallow  my  younger  brother  alive,  and,  seizing  me  by 
the  hair  of  my  head  as  the  angel  did  the  prophet  at 
Babylon,1  led  me  about  from  room  to  room.  After  an 
ineffectual  search,  in  the  course  of  which  he  mistook 
a  jug  of  oil  for  one  of  brandy,  and,  contrary  to  my 
explanations  and  remonstrances,  insisted  upon  swal 
lowing  a  portion  of  its  contents,  he  released  me, 
fell  to  crying  and  sobbing,  and  confessed  that  he  was 
so  drunk  already  that  his  horse  was  ashamed  of  him. 
After  bemoaning  and  pitying  himself  to  his  satisfac 
tion  he  wiped  his  eyes,  and  sat  down  by  the  side  of  my 
grandmother,  giving  her  to  understand  that  he  was 
very  much  pleased  with  her  appearance  ;  adding  that, 
if  agreeable  to  her,  he  should  like  the  privilege  of  pay 
ing  his  addresses  to  her.  While  vainly  endeavoring 
to  make  the  excellent  old  lady  comprehend  his  very 
flattering  proposition,  he  was  interrupted  by  the  return 
of  my  father,  who,  at  once  understanding  the  matter, 
turned  him  out  of  doors  without  ceremony. 

On  one  occasion,  a  few  years  ago,  on  my  return 
from  the  field  at  evening,  I  was  told  that  a  foreigner 
had  asked  for  lodgings  during  the  night,  but  that,  in 
fluenced  by  his  dark,  repulsive  appearance,  my  mother 
had  very  reluctantly  refused  his  request.  I  found  her 
by  no  means  satisfied  with  her  decision.  "  What  if  a 
son  of  mrne  was  in  a  strange  land  ?  "  she  inquired,  self- 
reproachfully.  Greatly  to  her  relief,  I  volunteered  to 
1  See  Ezekiel  viii.  3. 


YANKEE   GYPSIES.  183 

go  in  pursuit  of  the  wanderer,  and,  taking  a  cross-path 
over  the  fields,  soon  overtook  him.  He  had  just  been 
rejected  at  the  house  of  our  nearest  neighbor,  and  was 
standing  in  a  state  of  dubious  perplexity  in  the  street. 
His  looks  quite  justified  my  mother's  suspicions.  He 
was  an  olive-complexioned,  black-bearded  Italian,  with 
an  eye  like  a  live  coal,  such  a  face  as  perchance  looks 
out  on  the  traveller  in  the  passes  of  the  Abruzzi,1  — 
one  of  those  bandit  visages  which  Salvator 2  has 
painted.  With  some  difficulty  I  gave  him  to  under 
stand  my  errand,  when  he  overwhelmed  me  with 
thanks,  and  joyfully  followed  me  back.  He  took  his 
seat  with  us  at  the  supper- table ;  and,  when  we  were 
all  gathered  around  the  hearth  that  cold  autumnal 
evening,  he  told  us,  partly  by  words  and  partly  by 
gestures,  the  story  of  his  life  and  misfortunes,  amused 
us  with  descriptions  of  the  grape-gatherings  and  fes 
tivals  of  his  sunny  clime,  edified  my  mother  with  a 
recipe  for  making  bread  of  chestnuts ;  and  in  the  morn 
ing,  when,  after  breakfast,  his  dark  sullen  face  lighted 
up  and  his  fierce  eye  moistened  with  grateful  emotion 
as  in  his  own  silvery  Tuscan  accent  he  poured  out  his 
thanks,  we  marvelled  at  the  fears  which  had  so  nearly 
closed  our  door  against  him  ;  and,  as  he  departed,  we 
all  felt  that  he  had  left  with  us  the  blessing  of  the 
poor. 

It  was  not  often  that,  as  in  the  above  instance,  my 
mother's  prudence  got  the  better  of  her  charity.  The 
regular  "  old  stragglers  "  regarded  her  as  an  unfailing 
friend ;  and  the  sight  of  her  plain  cap  was  to  them  an 

1  Provinces  into  which  the  old  kingdom  of  Naples  was  divided. 

2  Salvator  Rosa  was  a  Neapolitan  by  birth,  and  was  said  to 
have  been  himself  a  bandit  in  his  youth  ;  his  landscapes  often 
contain  figures  drawn  from  the  wild  life  of  the  region. 


184  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

assurance  of  forthcoming  creature-comforts.  There 
was  indeed  a  tribe  of  lazy  strollers,  having  their  place 
of  rendezvous  in  the  town  of  Barrington,  New  Hamp 
shire,  whose  low  vices  had  placed  them  beyond  even 
the  pale  of  her  benevolence.  They  were  not  uncon 
scious  of  their  evil  reputation  ;  and  experience  had 
taught  them  the  necessity  of  concealing,  under  well- 
contrived  disguises,  their  true  character.  They  came 
to  us  in  all  shapes  and  with  all  appearances  save  the 
true  one,  with  most  miserable  stories  of  mishap  and 
sickness  and  all  "  the  ills  which  flesh  is  heir  to."  It 
was  particularly  vexatious  to  discover,  when  too  late, 
that  our  sympathies  and  charities  had  been  expended 
upon  such  graceless  vagabonds  as  the  "  Barrington  beg 
gars."  An  old  withered  hag,  known  by  the  appella 
tion  of  Hopping  Pat,  —  the  wise  woman  of  her  tribe, 
—  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  us,  with  her  hopeful 
grandson,  who  had  "  a  gift  for  preaching  "  as  well  as 
for  many  other  things  not  exactly  compatible  with 
holy  orders.  He  sometimes  brought  with  him  a  tame 
crow,  a  shrewd,  knavish-looking  bird,  who,  when  in 
the  humor  for  it,  could  talk  like  Barnaby  Rudge's 
raven.  He  used  to  say  he  could  "  do  nothin'  at  ex- 
hortin'  without  a  white  handkercher  on  his  neck  and 
money  in  his  pocket,"  —  a  fact  going  far  to  confirm 
the  opinions  of  the  Bishop  of  Exeter  and  the  Pusey- 
ites  generally,  that  there  can  be  no  priest  without 
tithes  and  surplice. 

These  people  have  for  several  generations  lived  dis 
tinct  from  the  great  mass  of  the  community,  like  the 
gypsies  of  Europe,  whom  in  many  respects  they  closely 
resemble.  They  have  the  same  settled  aversion  to 
labor  and  the  same  disposition  to  avail  themselves  of 
the  fruits  of  the  industry  of  others.  They  love  a  wild, 


YANKEE   GYPSIES.  185 

out-of-door  life,  sing  songs,  tell  fortunes,  and  have  an 
instinctive  hatred  of  "missionaries  and  cold  water." 
It  has  been  said  —  I  know  not  upon  what  grounds  — 
that  their  ancestors  were  indeed  a  veritable  importa 
tion  of  English  gypsyhood  ;  but  if  so,  they  have  un 
doubtedly  lost  a  good  deal  of  the  picturesque  charm 
of  its  unhoused  and  free  condition.  I  very  much  fear 
that  my  friend  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  —  sweetest  of 
England's  rural  painters,  —  who  has  a  poet's  eye  for 
the  fine  points  in  gypsy  character,  would  scarcely 
allow  their  claims  to  fraternity  with  her  own  vagrant 
friends,  whose  camp-fires  welcomed  her  to  her  new 
home  at  Swallowfield.1 

"  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man  ;  "  and,  ac 
cording  to  my  view,  no  phase  of  our  common  humanity 
is  altogether  unworthy  of  investigation.  Acting  upon 
this  belief  two  or  three  summers  ago,  when  making, 
in  company  with  my  sister,  a  little  excursion  into  the 
hill-country  of  New  Hampshire,  I  turned  my  horse's 
head  towards  Barrington  for  the  purpose  of  seeing 
these  semi-civilized  strollers  in  their  own  home,  and 
returning,  once  for  all,  their  numerous  visits.  Taking 
leave  of  our  hospitable  cousins  in  old  Lee  with  about 
as  much  solemnity  as  we  may  suppose  Major  Laing  2 
parted  with  his  friends  when  he  set  out  in  search  of 
desert-girdled  Timbuctoo,  we  drove  several  miles  over 

1  See  in  Miss  Mitford's  Our  Village. 

2  Alexander  Gordon  Laing  was  a  major  in  the  British  army, 
who  served  on  the  west  coast  of  Africa  and  made  journeys  into 
the  interior  in  the  attempt  to  establish  commercial  relations  with 
the  natives,  and  especially  to  discover  the  sources  of  the  Niger. 
He  was    treacherously  murdered   in  1826   by  the   guard  that 
was  attending  him  on  his  return  from  Timbuctoo  to  the  coast. 
His  travels  excited  great  interest  in  their  day  in  England  and 
America. 


186  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

a  rough  road,  passed  the  Devil's  Den  unmolested, 
crossed  a  fretful  little  streamlet  noisily  working  its 
way  into  a  valley,  where  it  turned  a  lonely,  half- 
ruinous  mill,  and,  climbing  a  steep  hill  beyond,  saw 
before  us  a  wide,  sandy  level,  skirted  on  the  west  and 
north  by  low,  scraggy  hills,  and  dotted  here  and  there 
with  dwarf  pitch-pines.  In  the  centre  of  this  desolate 
region  were  some  twenty  or  thirty  small  dwellings, 
grouped  together  as  irregularly  as  a  Hottentot  kraal. 
Unfenced,  unguarded,  open  to  all  comers  and  goers, 
stood  that  city  of  the  beggars,  —  no  wall  or  paling  be 
tween  the  ragged  cabins  to  remind  one  of  the  jealous 
distinctions  of  property.  The  great  idea  of  its  found 
ers  seemed  visible  in  its  unappropriated  freedom. 
Was  not  the  whole  round  world  their  own  ?  and  should 
they  haggle  about  boundaries  and  title-deeds?  For 
them,  on  distant  plains,  ripened  golden  harvests ;  for 
them,  in  far-off  workshops,  busy  hands  were  toiling ; 
for  them,  if  they  had  but  the  grace  to  note  it,  the 
broad  earth  put  on  her  garniture  of  beauty,  and  over 
them  hung  the  silent  mystery  of  heaven  and  its  stars. 
That  comfortable  philosophy  which  modern  transcen 
dentalism  has  but  dimly  shadowed  forth  —  that  po 
etic  agrarianism,  which  gives  all  to  each  and  each  to 
all  —  is  the  real  life  of  this  city  of  unwork.  To  each 
of  its  dingy  dwellers  might  be  not  unaptly  applied  the 
language  of  one  who,  I  trust,  will  pardon  me  for  quot 
ing  her  beautiful  poem  in  this  connection  :  — 

"  Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field  and  forest, 
Proud  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine, 

Thou  art  wealthier,  —  all  the  world  is  thine."  * 
But  look  !  the  clouds  are  breaking.     "  Fair  weather 
1  From  a  poem,  Why  Thus  Longing  ?  by  Mrs.  Harriet  Wins- 
low  Sewall,  preserved  in  Whittier's  Songs  of  Three  Centuries. 


THE  BOY  CAPTIVES.  187 

cometh  out  of  the  north."  The  wind  has  blown  away 
the  mists  ;  on  the  gilded  spire  of  John  Street  glim 
mers  a  beam  of  sunshine ;  and  there  is  the  sky  again, 
hard,  blue,  and  cold  in  its  eternal  purity,  not  a  whit 
the  worse  for  the  storm.  In  the  beautiful  present  the 
past  is  no  longer  needed.  Reverently  and  gratefully 
let  its  volume  be  laid  aside ;  and  when  again  the 
shadows  of  the  outward  world  fall  upon  the  spirit  may 
I  not  lack  a  good  angel  to  remind  me  of  its  solace, 
even  if  he  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  Barrington  beggar. 


n. 

THE  BOY  CAPTIVES. 

AN   INCIDENT   OP   THE   INDIAN   WAR   OF  1695. 

THE  township  of  Haverhill,  even  as  late  as  the  close 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  was  a  frontier  settlement, 
occupying  an  advanced  position  in  the  great  wilder 
ness,  which,  unbroken  by  the  clearing  of  a  white  man, 
extended  from  the  Merrimac  River  to  the  French  vil 
lages  on  the  St.  Francois.  A  tract  of  twelve  miles 
on  the  river  and  three  or  four  northwardly  was  occu 
pied  by  scattered  settlers,  while  in  the  centre  of  the 
town  a  compact  village  had  grown  up.  In  the  imme 
diate  vicinity  there  were  but  few  Indians,  and  these 
generally  peaceful  and  inoffensive.  On  the  breaking 
out  of  the  Narragansett  War,1  the  inhabitants  had 
erected  fortifications,  and  taken  other  measures  for 

1  The  "  Narragansett  War  "  was  a  name  applied  to  that  part 
ol  King  Philip's  War  which  resulted  from  the  defection  of  the 
powerful  tribe  of  Narragansetts,  formerly  allies  of  the  English, 
to  the  standard  of  the  Indian  chief. 


188  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

defence ;  but,  with  the  possible  exception  of  one  man 
who  was  found  slain  in  the  woods  in  1676,  none  of  the 
inhabitants  were  molested ;  and  it  was  not  until  about 
the  year  1689  that  the  safety  of  the  settlement  was 
seriously  threatened.  Three  persons  were  killed  in 
that  year.  In  1690  six  garrisons  were  established  in 
different  parts  of  the  town,  with  a  small  company  of 
soldiers  attached  to  each.  Two  of  these  houses  are 
still  standing.  They  were  built  of  brick,  two  stories 
high,  with  a  single  outside  door,  so  small  and  narrow 
that  but  one  person  could  enter  at  a  time  ;  the  win 
dows  few,  and  only  about  two  and  a  half  feet  long 
by  eighteen  inches  wide,  with  thick  diamond  glass  se 
cured  with  lead,  and  crossed  inside  with  bars  of  iron. 
The  basement  had  but  two  rooms,  and  the  chamber 
was  entered  by  a  ladder  instead  of  stairs  ;  so  that  the 
inmates,  if  driven  thither,  could  cut  off  communica 
tion  with  the  rooms  below.  Many  private  houses  were 
strengthened  and  fortified.  We  remember  one  fa 
miliar  to  our  boyhood,  —  a  venerable  old  building  of 
wood,  with  brick  between  the  weather-boards  and  ceil 
ing,  with  a  massive  balustrade  over  the  door,  con 
structed  of  oak  timber  and  plank,  with  holes  through 
the  latter  for  firing  upon  assailants.  The  door  opened 
upon  a  stone-paved  hall,  or  entry,  leading  into  the 
huge  single  room  of  the  basement,  which  was  lighted 
by  two  small  windows,  the  ceiling  black  with  the 
smoke  of  a  century  and  a  half  ;  a  huge  fireplace,  cal 
culated  for  eight-feet  wood,  occupying  one  entire  side ; 
while,  overhead,  suspended  from  the  timbers,  or  on 
shelves  fastened  to  them,  were  household  stores,  farm 
ing  utensils,  fishing-rods,  guns,  bunches  of  herbs 
gathered  perhaps  a  century  ago,  strings  of  dried  ap 
ples  and  pumpkins,  links  of  mottled  sausages,  spare- 


THE  BOY  CAPTIVES.  189 

ribs,  and  flitches  of  bacon  ;  the  fire-light  of  an  evening 
dimly  revealing  the  checked  woollen  coverlet  of  the 
bed  in  one  far-off  corner,  while  in  another  — 

"  The  pewter  plates  on  the  dresser 

Caught  and  reflected  the  flame  as  shields  of  armies  the  sun 
shine."  i 

Tradition  has  preserved  many  incidents  of  life  in 
the  garrisons.  In  times  of  unusual  peril  the  settlers 
generally  resorted  at  night  to  the  fortified  houses,  tak 
ing  thither  their  flocks  and  herds  and  such  household 
valuables  as  were  most  likely  to  strike  the  fancy  or 
minister  to  the  comfort  or  vanity  of  the  heathen  ma 
rauders.  False  alarms  were  frequent.  The  smoke  of 
a  distant  fire,  the  bark  of  a  dog  in  the  deep  woods,  a 
stump  or  bush,  taking  in  the  uncertain  light  of  stars 
and  moon  the  appearance  of  a  man,  were  sufficient  to 
spread  alarm  through  the  entire  settlement  and  to 
cause  the  armed  men  of  the  garrison  to  pass  whole 
nights  in  sleepless  watching.  It  is  said  that  at  Hasel- 
ton's  garrison-house  the  sentinel  on  duty  saw,  as 
he  thought,  an  Indian  inside  of  the  paling  which 
surrounded  the  building,  and  apparently  seeking  to 
gain  an  entrance.  He  promptly  raised  his  musket 
and  fired  at  the  intruder,  alarming  thereby  the  entire 
garrison.  The  women  and  children  left  their  beds, 
and  the  men  seized  their  guns  and  commenced  firing 
on  the  supicious  object ;  but  it  seemed  to  bear  a 
charmed  life,  and  remained  unharmed.  As  the  morn 
ing  dawned,  however,  the  mystery  was  solved  by  the 
discovery  of  a  black  quilted  petticoat  hanging  on  the 
clothes-line  completely  riddled  with  balls. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  under  circumstances  of  per 
petual  alarm  and  frequent  peril,  the  duty  of  cultivate 

1  Longfellow's  Evangeline,  lines  205,  206. 


190  JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

ing  their  fields,  and  gathering  their  harvests,  and 
working  at  their  mechanical  avocations,  was  danger 
ous  and  difficult  to  the  settlers.  One  instance  will 
serve  as  an  illustration.  At  the  garrison-house  of 
Thomas  Dustin,  the  husband  of  the  far-famed  Mary 
Dustin  (who,  while  a  captive  of  the  Indians,  and  mad 
dened  by  the  murder  of  her  infant  child,  killed  and 
scalped,  with  the  assistance  of  a  young  boy,  the  entire 
band  of  her  captors,  ten  in  number),  the  business  of 
brick-making  was  carried  on.  The  pits  where  the 
clay  was  found  were  only  a  few  rods  from  the  house  ; 
yet  no  man  ventured  to  bring  the  clay  to  the  yard 
within  the  inclosure,  without  the  attendance  of  a  file 
of  soldiers.  An  anecdote  relating  to  this  garrison  has 
been  handed  down  to  the  present  time.  Among  its 
inmates  were  two  young  cousins,  Joseph  and  Mary 
Whittaker  ;  the  latter  a  merry,  handsome  girl,  reliev 
ing  the  tedium  of  garrison-duty  with  her  light-hearted 
mirthfulness  and  — 

"Making  a  sunshine  in  that  shady  place." l 
Joseph,  in  the  intervals  of  his  labors  in  the  double 
capacity  of  brick-maker  and  man-at-arms,  was  assidu 
ous  in  his  attentions  to  his  fair  cousin,  who  was  not 
inclined  to  encourage  him.  Growing  desperate,  he 
threatened  one  evening  to  throw  himself  into  the  gar 
rison  well.  His  threat  only  called  forth  the  laughter 
of  his  mistress ;  and,  bidding  her  farewell,  he  pro 
ceeded  to  put  it  in  execution.  On  reaching  the  well 
he  stumbled  over  a  log ;  whereupon,  animated  by  a 

1  "  Her  angel's  face 

As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shyned  bright 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shadie  place  ; 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace." 
Spenser  :  The  Faery  Queene,  bk.  I.  canto  iii.  st.  4. 


THE  BOY  CAPTIVES.  191 

happy  idea,  he  dropped  the  wood  into  the  water  in 
stead  of  himself,  and,  hiding  behind  the  curb,  awaited 
the  result.  Mary,  who  had  been  listening  at  the  door, 
and  who  had  not  believed  her  lover  capable  of  so  rash 
an  act,  heard  the  sudden  plunge  of  the  wooden  Joseph. 
She  ran  to  the  well,  and,  leaning  over  the  curb  and 
peering  down  the  dark  opening,  cried  out,  in  tones  of 
anguish  and  remorse,  "  O  Joseph,  if  you're  in  the  land 
of  the  living,  I  '11  have  you !  "  "  I  '11  take  ye  at  your 
word,"  answered  Joseph,  springing  up  from  his  hiding- 
place  and  avenging  himself  for  her  coyness  and  cold 
ness  by  a  hearty  embrace. 

Our  own  paternal  ancestor,  owing  to  religious  scru 
ples  in  the  matter  of  taking  arms  even  for  defence 
of  life  and  property,  refused  to  leave  his  undefended 
house  and  enter  the  garrison.  The  Indians  frequently 
came  to  his  house ;  and  the  family  more  than  once  in 
the  night  heard  them  whispering  under  the  windows, 
and  saw  them  put  their  copper  faces  to  the  glass  to 
take  a  view  of  the  apartments.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem,  they  never  offered  any  injury  or  insult  to  the 
inmates. 

In  1695  the  township  was  many  times  molested  by 
Indians,  and  several  persons  were  killed  and  wounded. 
Early  in  the  fall  a  small  party  made  their  appearance 
in  the  northerly  part  of  the  town,  where,  finding  two 
boys  at  work  in  an  open  field,  they  managed  to  sur 
prise  and  capture  them,  and,  without  committing  fur 
ther  violence,  retreated  through  the  woods  to  their 
homes  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Winnipiseogee.  Isaac 
Bradley,  aged  fifteen,  was  a  small  but  active  and  vig 
orous  boy  ;  his  companion  in  captivity,  Joseph  Whit- 
taker,  was  only  eleven,  yet  quite  as  large  in  size,  and 
heavier  in  his  movements.  After  a  hard  and  painful 


192  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

journey  they  arrived  at  the  lake,  and  were  placed  in 
an  Indian  family,  consisting  of  a  man  and  squaw  and 
two  or  three  children.  Here  they  soon  acquired  a 
sufficient  knowledge  of  the  Indian  tongue  to  enable 
them  to  learn  from  the  conversation  carried  on  in  their 
presence  that  it  was  designed  to  take  them  to  Canada 
in  the  spring.  This  discovery  was  a  painful  one. 
Canada,  the  land  of  Papist  priests  and  bloody  Indians, 
was  the  especial  terror  of  the  New  England  settlers, 
and  the  anathema  maranatha1  of  Puritan  pulpits. 
Thither  the  Indians  usually  hurried  their  captives, 
where  they  compelled  them  to  work  in  their  villages 
or  sold  them  to  the  French  planters.  Escape  from 
thence  through  a  deep  wilderness,  and  across  lakes, 
and  mountains,  and  almost  impassable  rivers,  without 
food  or  guide,  is  regarded  as  an  impossibility.  The 
poor  boys,  terrified  by  the  prospect  of  being  carried 
still  farther  from  their  home  and  friends,  began  to 
dream  of  escaping  from  their  masters  before  they 
started  for  Canada.  It  was  now  winter ;  it  would  have 
been  little  short  of  madness  to  have  chosen  for  flight 
that  season  of  bitter  cold  and  deep  snows.  Owing  to 
exposure  and  want  of  proper  food  and  clothing,  Isaac, 
the  eldest  of  the  boys,  was  seized  with  a  violent  fever, 
from  which  he  slowly  recovered  in  the  course  of  the 
winter.  His  Indian  mistress  was  as  kind  to  him  as  her 
circumstances  permitted,  —  procuring  medicinal  herbs 
and  roots  for  her  patient,  and  tenderly  watching  over 

1  Anathema  maranatha  occurs  at  the  close  of  St.  Paul's  first 
epistle  to  the  Corinthians,  and  in  the  English  version  is  made  to 
appear  as  a  composite  phrase.  It  has  so  passed  into  common 
use,  maranatha  being  taken  as  intensifying  the  curse  contained 
in  anathema.  The  words  are  properly  to  be  divided,  maranatha 
signifying  "  The  Lord  eoineth." 


THE  BOY  CAPTIVES.  193 

him  in  the  long  winter  nights.  Spring  came  at  length  ; 
the  snows  melted  ;  and  the  ice  was  broken  up  on  the 
lake.  The  Indians  began  to  make  preparations  for 
journeying  to  Canada ;  and  Isaac,  who  had  during  his 
sickness  devised  a  plan  of  escape,  saw  that  the  time 
of  putting  it  in  execution  had  come.  On  the  evening 
before  he  was  to  make  the  attempt  he  for  the  first 
time  informed  his  younger  companion  of  his  design, 
and  told  him,  if  he  intended  to  accompany  him,  he 
must  be  awake  at  the  time  appointed.  The  boys  lay 
down  as  usual  in  the  wigwam  in  the  midst  of  the  fam 
ily.  Joseph  soon  fell  asleep  ;  but  Isaac,  fully  sensi 
ble  of  the  danger  and  difficulty  of  the  enterprise  be 
fore  him,  lay  awake,  watchful  for  his  opportunity. 
About  midnight  he  rose,  cautiously  stepping  over  the 
sleeping  forms  of  the  family,  and  securing,  as  he  went, 
his  Indian  master's  flint,  steel,  and  tinder,  and  a  small 
quantity  of  dry  moose-meat  and  corn-bread.  He  then 
carefully  awakened  his  companion,  who,  starting  up, 
forgetful  of  the  cause  of  his  disturbance,  asked  aloud, 
"What  do  you  want?"  The  savages  began  to  stir; 
and  Isaac,  trembling  with  fear  of  detection,  lay  down 
again  and  pretended  to  be  asleep.  After  waiting 
a  while  he  again  rose,  satisfied,  from  the  heavy  breath 
ing  of  the  Indians,  that  they  were  all  sleeping  ;  and 
fearing  to  awaken  Joseph  a  second  time,  lest  he  should 
again  hazard  all  by  his  thoughtlessness,  he  crept  softly 
out  of  the  wigwam.  He  had  proceeded  but  a  few 
rods  when  he  heard  footsteps  behind  him ;  and,  sup 
posing  himself  pursued,  he  hurried  into  the  woods, 
casting  a  glance  backward.  What  was  his  joy  to  see 
his  young  companion  running  after  him  !  They  has 
tened  on  in  a  southerly  direction  as  nearly  as  they 
could  determine,  hoping  to  reach  their  distant  home. 


194  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

When  daylight  appeared  they  found  a  large  hollow 
log,  into  which  they  crept  for  concealment,  wisely 
judging  that  they  would  be  hotly  pursued  by  their 
Indian  captors. 

Their  sagacity  was  by  no  means  at  fault.  The  In 
dians,  missing  their  prisoners  in  the  morning,  started 
off  in  pursuit  with  their  dogs.  As  the  young  boys 
lay  in  the  log  they  could  hear  the  whistle  of  the  Indi 
ans  and  the  barking  of  dogs  upon  their  track.  It  was 
a  trying  moment ;  and  even  the  stout  heart  of  the 
elder  boy  sank  within  him  as  the  dogs  came  up  to  the 
log  and  set  up  a  loud  bark  of  discovery.  But  his 
presence  of  mind  saved  him.  He  spoke  in  a  low  tone 
to  the  dogs,  who,  recognizing  his  familiar  voice,  wagged 
their  tails  with  delight,  and  ceased  barking.  He  then 
threw  to  them  the  morsel  of  moose-meat  he  had  taken 
from  the  wigwam.  While  the  dogs  were  thus  diverted, 
the  Indians  made  their  appearance.  The  boys  heard 
the  light,  stealthy  sound  of  their  moccasins  on  the 
leaves.  They  passed  close  to  the  log ;  and  the  "dogs, 
having  devoured  their  moose-meat,  trotted  after  their 
masters.  Through  a  crevice  in  the  log  the  boys 
looked  after  them,  and  saw  them  disappear  in  the 
thick  woods.  They  remained  in  their  covert  until  night, 
when  they  started  again  on  their  long  journey,  taking 
a  new  route  to  avoid  the  Indians.  At  daybreak  they 
again  concealed  themselves,  but  travelled  the  next 
night  and  day  without  resting.  By  this  time  they 
had  consumed  all  the  bread  which  they  had  taken,  and 
were  fainting  from  hunger  and  weariness.  Just  at 
the  close  of  the  third  day  they  were  providentially 
enabled  to  kill  a  pigeon  and  a  small  tortoise,  a  part  of 
which  they  ate  raw,  not  daring  to  make  a  fire,  which 
might  attract  the  watchful  eyes  of  savages.  On  the 


THE  BOY  CAPTIVES.  195 

sixth  day  they  struck  upon  an  old  Indian  path,  and, 
following  it  until  night,  came  suddenly  upon  a  camp 
of  the  enemy.  Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  under 
the  shelter  of  a  ridge  of  land  heavily  timbered,  a  great 
fire  of  logs  and  brushwood  was  burning ;  and  around 
it  the  Indians  sat,  eating  their  moose-meat  and  smok 
ing  their  pipes. 

The  poor  fugitives,  starving,  weary,  and  chilled  by 
the  cold  spring  blasts,  gazed  down  upon  the  ample 
fire,  and  the  savory  meats  which  the  squaws  were 
cooking  by  it,  but  felt  no  temptation  to  purchase 
warmth  and  food  by  surrendering  themselves  to  cap 
tivity.  Death  in  the  forest  seemed  preferable.  They 
turned  and  fled  back  upon  their  track,  expecting  every 
moment  to  hear  the  yells  of  pursuers.  The  morning 
found  them  seated  on  the  bank  of  a  small  stream,  their 
feet  torn  and  bleeding,  and  their  bodies  emaciated. 
The  elder,  as  a  last  effort,  made  search  for  roots,  and 
fortunately  discovered  a  few  ground-nuts  (glycine 
apios),  which  served  to  refresh  in  some  degree  him 
self  and  his  still  weaker  companion.  As  they  stood 
together  by  the  stream,  hesitating  and  almost  despair 
ing,  it  occurred  to  Isaac  that  the  rivulet  might  lead  to 
a  larger  stream  of  water,  and  that  to  the  sea  and  the 
white  settlements  near  it ;  and  he  resolved  to  follow 
it.  They  again  began  their  painful  march ;  the  day 
passed,  and  the  night  once  more  overtook  them. 
When  the  eighth  morning  dawned,  the  younger  of 
the  boys  found  himself  unable  to  rise  from  his  bed 
of  leaves.  Isaac  endeavored  to  encourage  him,  dug 
roots,  and  procured  water  for  him  ;  but  the  poor  lad 
was  utterly  exhausted.  He  had  no  longer  heart  or 
hope.  The  elder  boy  laid  him  on  leaves  and  dry  grass 
at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  with  a  heavy  heart  bade  him 


196  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

farewell.  Alone  lie  slowly  and  painfully  proceeded 
down  the  stream,  now  greatly  increased  in  size  by 
tributary  rivulets.  On  the  top  of  a  hill  he  climbed 
with  difficulty  into  a  tree,  and  saw  in  the  distance 
what  seemed  to  be  a  clearing  and  a  newly-raised 
frame  building.  Hopeful  and  rejoicing,  he  turned 
back  to  his  young  companion,  told  him  what  he  had 
seen,  and,  after  chafing  his  limbs  awhile,  got  him  upon 
his  feet.  Sometimes  supporting  him,  and  at  others 
carrying  him  on  his  back,  the  heroic  boy  staggered 
towards  the  clearing.  On  reaching  it  he  found  it 
deserted,  and  was  obliged  to  continue  his  journey. 
Towards  night  signs  of  civilization  began  to  appear, 
—  the  heavy,  continuous  roar  of  water  was  heard ; 
and,  presently  emerging  from  the  forest,  he  saw  a 
great  river  dashing  in  white  foam  down  precipitous 
rocks,  and  on  its  bank  the  gray  walls  of  a  huge  stone 
building,  with  flankers,  palisades,  and  moat,  over 
which  the  British  flag  was  flying.  This  was  the  fa 
mous  Saco  Fort,  built  by  Governor  Phips,1  two  years 
before,  just  below  the  falls  of  the  Saco  River.  The 
soldiers  of  the  garrison  gave  the  poor  fellows  a  kindly 
welcome.  Joseph,  who  was  scarcely  alive,  lay  for  a 
long  time  sick  in  the  fort ;  but  Isaac  soon  regained 
his  strength,  and  set  out  for  his  home  in  Haverhill, 
which  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  arrive  at  in  safety. 

Amidst  the  stirring  excitements  of  the  present  day, 
when  every  thrill  of  the  electric  wire  conveys  a  new 
subject  for  thought  or  action  to  a  generation  as  eager 
as  the  ancient  Athenians  for  some  new  thing,  simple 

1  An  interesting  account  of  Sir  William  Phips  will  be  found  in 
Parkman's  Frontenac  and  Neio  France  under  Louis  XI V.  Haw 
thorne  also  tells  his  romantic  story  in  Fanshawe  and  Other 
Pieces. 


THE  BOY  CAPTIVES.  197 

legends  of  the  past  like  that  which  we  have  transcribed 
have  undoubtedly  lost  in  a  great  degree  their  interest. 
The  lore  of  the  fireside  is  becoming  obsolete,  and  with 
the  octogenarian  few  who  still  linger  among  us  will 
perish  the  unwritten  history  of  border  life  in  New 
England. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


INTRODUCTION. 

IN  the  early  years  of  Dr.  Holmes's  career  his  literary 
reputation  rested  on  verse  which  seemed  the  playful  pas 
time  of  a  professional  man.  To  students  in  medicine,  in 
deed,  he  was  known  as  a  keen  writer,  and  his  published 
papers  upon  professional  topics  showed  how  valuable  was 
his  literary  skill  in  presenting  subjects  of  a  scientific  nature. 
To  the  general  public,  however,  his  prose  was  known  chiefly 
through  the  medium  of  the  popular  lecture,  and  the  impres 
sion  was  easily  created  that  he  was  a  witty  and  humorous 
writer  with  a  turn  for  satire.  It  was  not  until  he  delivered 
the  as  yet  unpublished  lectures  on  the  English  Poets  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century  before  the  Lowell  Institute  in  Boston, 
in  1852,  that  the  wider  range  of  his  thought  and  the  pene 
tration  of  his  poetic  insight  were  recognized.  Five  or  six 
years  later  a  better  occasion  came,  and  in  the  first  number 
of  The  Atlantic  Monthly  was  begun  a  series  of  prose 
writings  which,  under  various  names,  gave  a  new  and  im 
portant  place  in  literature  to  the  author.  The  first  of  the 
series  was  The  Autocrat  at  the  Breakfast- Table,  the  last, 
The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast-  Table,  and  in  this  the  writer  dis 
tinctly  says  what  the  observant  reader  of  the  series  will  be 
pretty  sure  to  discover  for  himself :  "  I  have  unburdened 
myself  in  this  book,  and  in  some  other  pages,  of  what  I  was 
born  to  say.  Many  things  that  I  have  said  in  my  riper 
days  have  been  aching  in  my  soul  since  I  was  a  mere  child. 
I  say  aching,  because  they  conflicted  with  many  of  my 


200  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 

inherited  beliefs,  or  rather  traditions.  I  did  not  know  then 
that  two  strains  of  blood  were  striving  in  me  for  the  mas 
tery —  two!  twenty,  perhaps  —  twenty  thousand,  for  aught 
I  know  —  but  represented  to  me  by  two  —  paternal  and 
maternal.  But  I  do  know  this  :  I  have  struck  a  good  many 
chords,  first  and  last,  in  the  consciousness  of  other  people. 
I  confess  to  a  tender  feeling  for  my  little  brood  of  thoughts. 
When  they  have  been  welcomed  and  praised,  it  has  pleased 
me ;  and  if  at  any  time  they  have  been  rudely  handled  and 
despitefully  treated,  it  has  cost  me  a  little  worry.  I  don't 
despise  reputation,  and  I  should  like  to  be  remembered  as 
having  said  something  worth  lasting  well  enough  to  last." 

This  passage  briefly  presents  three  very  noticeable  char 
acteristics  of  Dr.  Holmes's  prose  as  contained  in  the  series 
of  Atlantic  papers  and  stories.  They  give  the  mature 
thought  of  the  writer,  held  back  through  many  years  for 
want  of  an  adequate  occasion,  and  ripened  in  his  mind  dur 
ing  this  enforced  silence  ;  they  illustrate  the  effect  upon  his 
thought  of  his  professional  studies,  which  predisposed  him 
to  treat  of  the  natural  history  of  man,  and  to  import  into 
his  analysis  of  the  invisible  organism  of  life  the  terms  and 
methods  employed  in  the  science  of  the  visible  anatomy  and 
physiology  ; .  and  finally  they  are  warm  with  a  sympathy  for 
men  and  women,  and  singularly  felicitous  in  their  expres 
sion  of  many  of  the  indistinct  and  half-understood  experi 
ences  of  life.  For  their  form  it  may  be  said  that  the 
impression  produced  upon  the  reader  of  the  Autocrat  series, 
which  was  finally  gathered  into  a  volume,  is  of  a  growth 
rather  than  of  a  premeditated  artistic  completeness.  The 
first  suggestion  is  found  in  the  two  papers  under  the  title  of 
The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table,  published  in  The 
New  England  Magazine  for  November,  1831,  and  Janu 
ary,  1832.  These  were  written  by  Dr.  Holmes  shortly 
after  his  graduation  from  college  and  before  he  entered  on 
his  medical  studies.  They  consist  of  brief,  epigrammatic 
observations  upon  various  topics,  the  desultory  talk  of  a  per- 


INTRODUCTION.  201 

•on  engrossing  conversation  at  a  table.  The  form  is  mono 
logue  with  scarcely  more  than  a  hint  at  interruption,  and 
no  attempt  at  characterizing  the  speaker  or  his  listeners. 
Twenty-five  years  later,  when  The  Atlantic  Monthly  was 
founded,  the  author  remembering  the  fancy  resumed  it, 
and  under  the  same  title  began  a  series  of  papers  which  at 
once  had  great  favor  and  grew,  possibly,  beyond  the  writer's 
original  intention.  Twenty-five  years  had  not  dulled  the 
wit  and  gayety  of  the  exuberant  young  author  ;  rather,  they 
had  ripened  the  early  fruit  and  imparted  a  richness  of  fla 
vor  which  greatly  increased  the  value.  The  maturity  was 
seen  not  only  in  the  wider  reach  and  deeper  tone  of  the 
talk,  but  in  the  humanizing  of  the  scheme.  Out  of  the  talk 
at  the  breakfast-table  one  began  to  distinguish  characters 
and  faces  in  the  persons  about  the  board,  and  before  the 
Autocrat  was  completed,. there  had  appeared  a  series  of  por 
traits,  vivid  and  full  of  interest.  Two  characters  mean 
while  were  hinted  at  by  the  author  rather  than  described  or 
very  palpably  introduced,  the  Professor  and  the  Poet.  It 
is  not  difficult  to  see  that  these  are  thin  disguises  for  the 
author  himself,  who,  in  the  versatility  of  his  nature,  appeals 
to  the  reader  now  as  a  brilliant  philosopher,  now  as  a  man 
of  science,  now  as  a  seer  and  poet.  The  Professor  at  the 
Breakfast-Table  followed,  and  there  was  a  still  stronger 
dramatic  power  disclosed ;  some  of  the  former  characters 
remained  and  others  of  even  more  positive  individuality  were 
added ;  a  romance  was  inwoven  and  something  like  a  plot 
sketched,  so  that  while  the  talk  still  went  on  and  eddied 
about  greater  subjects  than  before,  the  book  which  grew  out 
of  the  papers  had  more  distinctly  the  form  of  a  series  of 
sketches  from  life.  It  was  followed  by  two  novels,  Elsie 
Venner  and  The  Guardian  Angel.  The  talks  at  the 
breakfast-table  had  often  gravitated  toward  the  deep  themes 
of  destiny  and  human  freedom ;  the  novels  wrought  the 
same  subjects  in  dramatic  form,  and  action  interpreted  the 
thought,  while  still  there  flowed  on  the  wonderful,  appar- 


202  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

ently  inexhaustible  stream  of  wit,  tenderness,  passion,  and 
human  sympathy.  Once  more,  fourteen  years  after  the 
appearance  of  the  first  of  the  series,  came  The  Poet  at  the 
Breakfast- Table.  A  new  group  of  characters,  with  slight 
reminders  of  former  ones,  occupied  the  pages,  again  talk 
and  romance  blended,  and  playfulness,  satire,  sentiment, 
wise  reflection,  and  sturdy  indignation  followed  in  quick 
succession. 

The  Breakfast-Table  series  forms  a  group,  independent 
of  the  intercalated  novels,  and,  with  its  frequent  poems,  may 
be  taken  as  an  artistic  whole.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say 
that  it  makes  a  new  contribution  to  the  forms  of  literary 
art.  The  elasticity  of  the  scheme  rendered  possible  a  com 
prehensiveness  of  material ;  the  exuberance  of  the  author's 
fancy  and  the  fullness  of  his  thought  gave  a  richness  to  the 
fabric  ;  the  poetic  sense  of  fitness  kept  the  whole  within  just 
bounds.  Moreover,  the  personality  of  the  author  was  viv 
idly  present  in  all  parts.  There  are  few  examples  of  litera 
ture  in  the  first  person  so  successful  as  this. 

In  1885  Dr.  Holmes  published  another  novel  under  the 
title  A  Mortal  Antipathy,  and  in  1890  Over  the  Teacups,  a 
series  of  papers  like  those  in  the  Breakfast-Table  volumes. 

It  is  from  The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast-Table  that  the  fol 
lowing  episode  is  taken. 


I. 

THE  GAMBREL  ^ROOFED  HOUSE  AND  ITS 
OUTLOOK. 

A  PANORAMA,   WITH   SIDE-SHOWS. 

MY  birthplace,  the  home  of  my  childhood  and  ear 
lier  and  later  boyhood,  has  within  a  few  months  passed 
out  of  the  ownership  of  my  family  into  the  hands  of 
that  venerable  Alma  Mater  who  seems  to  have  re 
newed  her  youth,  and  has  certainly  repainted  her  dor 
mitories.  In  truth,  when  I  last  revisited  that  familiar 
scene  and  looked  upon  the  flammantia  mania  2  of  the 
old  halls,  "  Massachusetts  "  with  the  dummy  clock- 
dial,3  "  Harvard  "  with  the  garrulous  belfry, 4  little 
"  Holden  "  5  with  the  sculptured  unpunishable  cherubs 

1 "  Know  old  Cambridge  ?     Hope  you  do.  — 
Born  there  ?     Don't  say  so  !     I  was  too. 
(Born  in  a  house  with  a  gambrel-roof,  — 
Standing  still,  if  you  must  have  proof,  — 
'  Gambrel  ?  —  Gambrel  ?  '  —  Let  me  beg 
You  '11  look  at  a  horse's  hinder  leg,  — 
First  great  angle  above  the  hoof,  — 
That's  the  gambrel ;  hence  gambrel-roof.)" 

Parson  TurelVs  Legacy  in  The  Autocrat  of 

the  Breakfast-  Table. 
2  Flame-red  walls. 

8  Early  views  of  Massachusetts  show  the  clock  in  apparent 
activity. 

4  Harvard  Hall  holds  in  its  belfry  tower  the  college  bell. 
6  Holden  Chapel  was  built  in  1744,  and  on  the  pediment  front 
ing  the  Common  may  be  seen  the  arms  of  the  Holden  family  of 
England,  with  whose  gift  the  chapel  was  built.     It  has  long  been 
devoted  to  other  uses. 


204  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

over  its  portal,  and  the  rest  of  my  early  brick-and- 
mortar  acquaintances,1  I  could  not  help  saying  to  my 
self  that  I  had  lived  to  see  the  peaceable  establishment 
of  the  Red  Republic  of  Letters. 

Many  of  the  things  I  shall  put  down  I  have  no 
doubt  told  before  in  a  fragmentary  way,  how  many  I 
cannot  be  quite  sure,  as  I  do  not  very  often  read  my 
own  prose  works.  But  when  a  man  dies  a  great  deal 
is  said  of  him  which  has  often  been  said  in  other 
forms,  and  now  this  dear  old  house  is  dead  to  me  in 
one  sense,  and  I  want  to  gather  up  my  recollections 
and  wind  a  string  of  narrative  round  them,  tying  them 
up  like  a  nosegay  for  the  last  tribute  :  the  same  blos 
soms  in  it  I  have  often  laid  on  its  threshold  while  it 
was  still  living  for  me. 

We  Americans  are  all  cuckoos,  —  we  make  our 
homes  in  the  nests  of  other  birds.  I  have  read  some 
where  that  the  lineal  descendants  of  the  man  who 
carted  off  the  body  of  William  Rufus,  with  Walter 
Tyrrel's  arrow  sticking  in  it,  have  driven  a  cart  (not 
absolutely  the  same  one,  I  suppose)  in  the  New  Forest 
from  that  day  to  this.  I  don't  quite  understand  Mr. 
Ruskin's  saying  (if  he  said  it)  that  he  could  n't  get 
along  in  a  country  where  there  were  no  castles,  but  I 
do  think  we  lose  a  great  deal  in  living  where  there 
are  so  few  permanent  homes.  You  will  see  how  much 
I  parted  with  which  was  not  reckoned  in  the  price 
paid  for  the  old  homestead. 

I  shall  say  many  things  which  an  uncharitable  reader 
might  find  fault  with  as  personal.  I  should  not  dare 
to  call  myself  a  poet  if  I  did  not ;  for  if  there  is  any- 

1 "  There,  in  red  brick,  which  softening  time  defies, 
Stand  square  and  stiff  the  Muses'  factories." 

An  Indian  Summer  Reverie,  by  J.  R.  LowelL 


THE   GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE.          205 

thing  that  gives  one  a  title  to  that  name,  it  is  that  his 
inner  nature  is  naked  and  is  not  ashamed.  But  there 
are  many  such  things  I  shall  put  in  words,  not  because 
they  are  personal,  but  because  they  are  human,  and  are 
born  of  just  such  experiences  as  those  who  hear  or 
read  what  I  say  are  like  to  have  had  in  greater  or  less 
measure.  I  find  myself  so  much  like  other  people  that 
I  often  wonder  at  the  coincidence.  It  was  only  the 
other  day  that  I  sent  out  a  copy  of  verses  l  about  my 
great-grandmother's  picture,  and  I  was  surprised  to 
find  how  many  other  people  had  portraits  of  their 
great-grandmothers  or  other  progenitors,  about  which 
they  felt  as  I  did  about  mine,  and  for  whom  I  had 
spoken,  thinking  I  was  speaking  for  myself  only. 
And  so  I  am  not  afraid  to  talk  very  freely  with  you, 
my  precious  reader  or  listener.  You  too,  Beloved, 
were  born  somewhere  and  remember  your  birthplace 
or  your  early  home ;  for  you  some  house  is  haunted  by 
recollections ;  to  some  roof  you  have  bid  farewell. 
Your  hand  is  upon  mine,  then,  as  I  guide  my  pen. 
Your  heart  frames  the  responses  to  the  litany  of 
my  remembrance.  For  myself  it  is  a  tribute  of  affec 
tion  I  am  rendering,  and  I  should  put  it  on  record 
for  my  own  satisfaction,  were  there  none  to  read  or  to 
listen. 

I  hope  you  will  not  say  that  I  have  built  a  pillared 
portico  of  introduction  to  a  humble  structure  of  narra 
tive.  For  when  you  look  at  the  old  gambrel-roofed 
house,  you  will  see  an  unpretending  mansion,  such  as 
very  possibly  you  were  born  in  yourself,  or  at  any  rate 
such  a  place  of  residence  as  your  minister  or  some  of 
your  well-to-do  country  cousins  find  good  enough,  but 
not  at  all  too  grand  for  them.  We  have  stately  old 
1  See  Dorothy  Q.,  a  Family  Portrait. 


206  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Colonial  palaces  l  in  our  ancient  village,  now  a  city, 
and  a  thriving  one,  —  square-fronted  edifices  that 
stand  back  from  the  vulgar  highway,  with  folded  arms, 
as  it  were ;  social  fortresses  of  the  time  when  the  twi 
light  lustre  of  the  throne  reached  as  far  as  our  half- 
cleared  settlement,  with  a  glacis  before  them  in  the 
shape  of  a  long  broad  gravel-walk,  so  that  in  King 
George's  time  they  looked  as  formidable  to  any  but 
the  silk-stocking  gentry  as  Gibraltar  or  Ehrenbreit- 
stein  to  a  visitor  without  the  password.  We  forget  all 
this  in  the  kindly  welcome  they  give  us  to-day ;  for 
some  of  them  are  still  standing  and  doubly  famous,  as 
we  all  know.  But  the  gambrel-roofed  house,  though 
stately  enough  for  college  dignitaries  and  scholarly 
clergymen,  was  not  one  of  those  old  tory,  Episcopal- 
church-goer's  strongholds.  One  of  its  doors  opens  di 
rectly  upon  the  green,  always  called  the  Common ;  the 
other,  facing  the  south,  a  few  steps  from  it,  over  a 
paved  footwalk,  on  the  other  side  of  which  is  the  min 
iature  front  yard,  bordered  with  lilacs  and  syringas. 
The  honest  mansion  makes  no  pretensions.  Accessible, 
companionable,  holding  its  hand  out  to  all,  comfortable, 
respectable,  and  even  in  its  way  dignified,  but  not  im 
posing,  not  a  house  for  his  Majesty's  Counsellor,  or 
the  Right  Reverend  successor  of  Him  who  had  not 
where  to  lay  his  head,  for  something  like  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  it  has  stood  in  its  lot,  and  seen  the 
generations  of  men  come  and  go  like  the  leaves  of  the 
forest.  I  passed  some  pleasant  hours,  a  few  years 

1  Such  as  what  was  known  as  the  Bishop's  Palace,  the  houses 
on  Brattle  Street  occupied  in  Colonial  days  by  Brattle,  the  Vas 
sals,  Oliver,  Ruggles,  Lee,  Sewall,  and  others.  Most  of  the 
occupants  were  tories  and  Church  of  England  men,  and  the  prin 
cipal  line  of  mansions  went  by  the  name  of  Church  Row. 


THE.  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE.  207 

since,  in  the  Registry  of  Deeds  and  the  Town  Records, 
looking  up  the  history  of  the  old  house.  How  those 
dear  friends  of  mine,  the  antiquarians,  for  whose  grave 
councils  I  compose  my  features  on  the  too  rare  Thurs 
days  1  when  I  am  at  liberty  to  meet  them,  in  whose 
human  herbarium  the  leaves  and  blossoms  of  past 
generations  are  so  carefully  spread  out  and  pressed 
and  laid  away,  would  listen  to  an  expansion  of  the  fol 
lowing  brief  details  into  an  Historical  Memoir ! 

The  estate  was  the  third  lot  of  the  eighth  "  Squad 
ron  "  (whatever  that  might  be),  and  in  the  year  1707 
was  allotted  in  the  distribution  of  undivided  lands  to 
"  Mr.  ffox,"  the  Reverend  Jabez  Fox,  of  Woburn,  it 
may  be  supposed,  as  it  passed  from  his  heirs  to  the 
first  Jonathan  Hastings  ;  from  him  to  his  son,  the 
long-remembered  College  Steward ;  from  him  in  the 
year  1792  to  the  Reverend  Eliphalet  Pearson,  Pro 
fessor  of  Hebrew  and  other  Oriental  languages  in 
Harvard  College,  whose  large  personality  swam  into 
my  ken  when  I  was  looking  forward  to  my  teens  ; 
from  him  to  the  progenitors  of  my  unborn  self. 

I  wonder  if  there  are  any  such  beings  nowadays  as 
the  great  Eliphalet,  with  his  large  features  and  con 
versational  basso  prqfundo,  seemed  to  me.2  His  very 
name  had  something  elephantine  about  it,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  house  shook  from  cellar  to  gar 
ret  at  his  foot-fall.  Some  have  pretended  that  he  had 
Olympian  aspirations,  and  wanted  to  sit  in  the  seat 
of  Jove  and  bear  the  academic  thunderbolt  and  the 
aegis  inscribed  Christo  et  Ecclesice.  It  is  a  common 
weakness  enough  to  wish  to  find  one's  self  in  an 

1  The  day  of  meeting  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society. 

2  See  Dr.  Holmes's  reference   to  the  great   Eliphalet,  in   his 
poem,  The  School-Boy,  lines  256-262. 


208  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

empty  saddle;  Cotton  Mather  was  miserable  all  his 
days,  I  am  afraid,  after  that  entry  in  his  Diary : 
"  This  Day  Dr.  SewaH  was  chosen  President,  for  his 
Piety." 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  men  of  the  older  gener 
ation  look  bigger  and  more  formidable  to  the  boys 
whose  eyes  are  turned  up  at  their  venerable  counte 
nances  than  the  race  which  succeeds  them,  to  the  same 
boys  grown  older.  Everything  is  twice  as  large, 
measured  on  a  three-year-old's  three-foot  scale  as  on 
a  thirty-year-old's  six-foot  scale  ;  but  age  magnifies 
and  aggravates  persons  out  of  due  proportion.  Old 
people  are  a  kind  of  monsters  to  little  folks  ;  mild 
manifestations  of  the  terrible,  it  may  be,  but  still, 
with  their  white  locks  and  ridged  and  grooved  fea 
tures,  which  those  horrid  little  eyes  exhaust  of  their 
details,  like  so  many  microscopes,  not  exactly  what 
human  beings  ought  to  be.  The  middle-aged  and 
young  men  have  left  comparatively  faint  impressions 
in  my  memory,  but  how  grandly  the  procession  of  the 
old  clergymen  who  filled  our  pulpit  from  time  to  time, 
and  passed  the  day  under  our  roof,  marches  before 
my  closed  eyes!  At  their  head  the  most  venerable 
David  Osgood,  the  majestic  minister  of  Medford,  with 
massive  front  and  shaggy  overshadowing  eyebrows  ; 
following  in  the  train,  mild-eyed  John  Foster  of 
Brighton,  with  the  lambent  aurora  of  a  smile  about 
his  pleasant  mouth,  which  not  even  the  "  Sabbath  " 
could  subdue  to  the  true  Levitical  aspect ;  and  bulky 
Charles  Stearns  of  Lincoln,  author  of  "  The  Ladies' 
Philosophy  of  Love.  A  Poem.  1797."  (how  I  stared 
at  him !  he  was  the  first  living  person  ever  pointed 
out  to  me  as  a  poet)  ;  and  Thaddeus  Mason  Harris l 

1  "  I  remember  in  my  boyhood  the  little  quaint  old  man,  bent 


THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE.          209 

of  Dorchester  (the  same  who,  a  poor  youth,  trudging 
along,  staff  in  hand,  being  then  in  a  stress  of  sore 
need,  found  all  at  once  that  somewhat  was  adhering 
to  the  end  of  his  stick,  which  somewhat  proved  to  be 
a  gold  ring  of  price,  bearing  the  words,  "  God  speed 
thee,  Friend !  "),  already  in  decadence  as  I  remember 
him,  with  head  slanting  forward  and  downward  as  if 
looking  for  a  place  to  rest  in  after  his  learned  labors ; 
and  that  other  Thaddeus,1  the  old  man  of  West  Cam 
bridge,  who  outwatched  the  rest  so  long  after  they 
had  gone  to  sleep  in  their  own  churchyards,  that  it 
almost  seemed  as  if  he  meant  to  sit  up  until  the  morn 
ing  of  the  resurrection  ;  and,  bringing  up  the  rear, 
attenuated  but  vivacious  little  Jonathan  Homer  of 
Newton,  who  was,  to  look  upon,  a  kind  of  expurgated, 
reduced,  and  Americanized  copy  of  Voltaire,  but  very 
unlike  him  in  wickedness  or  wit.  The  good-humored 
junior  member  of  our  family  always  loved  to  make 
him  happy  by  setting  him  chirruping  about  Miles 
Coverdale's  Version,  and  the  Bishop's  Bible,  and  how 
he  wrote  to  his  friend  Sir  Isaac  (Coffin)  about  some 
thing  or  other,  and  how  Sir  Isaac  wrote  back  that  he 
was  very  much  pleased  with  the  contents  of  his  letter, 
and  so  on  about  Sir  Isaac,  ad  libitum,  —  for  the  ad 
miral  was  his  old  friend,  and  he  was  proud  of  him. 
The  kindly  little  old  gentleman  was  a  collector  of  Bi- 

almost  incredibly,  but  still  wearing  a  hale  aspect,  who  used  to 
haunt  the  alcoves  of  the  old  library  in  Harvard  Hall.  It  was 
rumored  among  us  that  he  had  once  been  appointed  private  sec 
retary  to  Washington,  but  had  resigned  from  illness  ;  and  it  was 
known  that  he  was  arranging  and  indexing  for  Mr.  Sparks  the 
one  hundred  and  thirty-two  manuscript  volumes  of  Washing 
ton's  correspondence."  T.  W.  Higginson  :  Memoir  of  Thad 
deus  William  Harris  (son  of  T.  M.  H.). 

1  Rev.  Thaddeus  Fiske,  who  died  in  1855  at  the  age  of  93. 


210  OLIVER  WENDELL  tiOLMES. 

bles,  and  made  himself  believe  he  thought  he  should 
publish  a  learned  Commentary  some  day  or  other ;  but 
his  friends  looked  for  it  only  in  the  Greek  Calends,  — 
say  on  the  31st  of  April,  when  that  should  come 
round,  if  you  would  modernize  the  phrase.  I  recall 
also  one  or  two  exceptional  and  infrequent  visitors 
with  perfect  distinctness :  cheerful  Elijah  Kellogg,  a 
lively  missionary  from  the  region  of  the  Quoddy  In 
dians,  with  much  hopeful  talk  about  Sock  Bason  and 
his  tribe ;  also  Poor-house-Parson  Isaac  Smith,  his 
head  going  like  a  China  mandarin,  as  he  discussed 
the  possibilities  of  the  escape  of  that  distinguished 
captive  whom  he  spoke  of  under  the  name,  if  I  can 
reproduce  phonetically  its  vibrating  nasalities,  of 
"  General  Mmbongaparty,"  a  name  suggestive  to  my 
young  imagination  of  a  dangerous,  loose-jointed  skel 
eton,  threatening  us  all  like  the  armed  figure  of  Death 
in  my  little  New  England  Primer. 

I  have  mentioned  only  the  names  of  those  whose 
images  come  up  pleasantly  before  me,  and  I  do  not 
mean  to  say  anything  which  any  descendant  might 
not  read  smilingly.  But  there  were  some  of  the  black- 
coated  gentry  whose  aspect  was  not  so  agreeable  to 
me.  It  is  very  curious  to  me  to  look  back  on  my 
early  likes  and  dislikes,  and  see  how  as  a  child  I  was 
attracted  or  repelled  by  such  and  such  ministers,  a 
good  deal,  as  I  found  out  long  afterwards,  according 
to  their  theological  beliefs.  On  the  whole,  I  think 
the  old-fashioned  New  England  divine  softening  down 
into  Arminianism  was  about  as  agreeable  as  any  of 
them.  And  here  I  may  remark,  that  a  mellowing 
rigorist  is  always  a  much  pleasanter  object  to  contem 
plate  than  a  tightening  liberal,  as  a  cold  day  warming 
up  to  32°  Fahrenheit  is  much  more  agreeable  than  a 


THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE.          211 

warm  one  chilling  down  to  the  same  temperature. 
The  least  pleasing  change  is  that  kind  of  mental  hern- 
iplegia  which  now  and  then  attacks  the  rational  side 
of  a  man  at  about  the  same  period  of  life  when  one 
side  of  the  body  is  liable  to  be  palsied,  and  in  fact  is, 
very  probably,  the  same  thing  as  palsy,  in  another 
form.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  the  subjects  of  it  never 
seem  to  suspect  that  they  are  intellectual  invalids, 
stammerers  and  cripples  at  best,  but  are  all  the  time 
hitting  out  at  their  old  friends  with  the  well  arm,  and 
calling  them  hard  names  out  of  their  twisted  mouths. 

It  was  a  real  delight  to  have  one  of  those  good, 
hearty,  happy,  benignant  old  clergymen  pass  the  Sun 
day  with  us,  and  I  can  remember  some  whose  advent 
made  the  day  feel  almost  like  "  Thanksgiving."  But 
now  and  then  would  come  along  a  clerical  visitor  with 
a  sad  face  and  a  wailing  voice,  which  sounded  exactly 
as  if  somebody  must  be  lying  dead  up-stairs,  who  took 
no  interest  in  us  children,  except  a  painful  one,  as 
being  in  a  bad  way  with  our  cheery  looks,  and  did 
more  to  unchristianize  us  with  his  woebegone  ways 
than  all  his  sermons  were  like  to  accomplish  in  the 
other  direction.  I  remember  one  in  particular,  who 
twitted  me  so  with  my  blessings  as  a  Christian  child, 
and  whined  so  to  me  about  the  naked  black  children 
who,  like  the  "  Little  Vulgar  Boy,"  "  had  n't  got  no 
supper  and  had  n't  got  no  ma,"  and  had  n't  got  no 
Catechism,  (how  I  wished  for  the  moment  I  was  a  lit 
tle  black  boy !)  that  he  did  more  in  that  one  day  to 
make  me  a  heathen  than  he  had  ever  done  in  a  month 
to  make  a  Christian  out  of  an  infant  Hottentot. 
What  a  debt  we  owe  to  our  friends  of  the  left  centre, 
the  Brooklyn  and  the  Park  Street  and  the  Summer 
Street  ministers ;  good,  wholesome,  sound  -  bodied, 


212  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

sane-minded,  cheerful-spirited  men,  who  have  taken 
the  place  of  those  wailing  poitrinaires  with  the  ban 
danna  handkerchiefs  round  their  meagre  throats  and  a 
funeral  service  in  their  forlorn  physiognomies !  I 
might  have  been  a  minister  myself,  for  aught  I  know, 
if  this  clergyman  had  not  looked  and  talked  so  like  an 
undertaker. 

All  this  belongs  to  one  of  the  side-shows,  to  which 
I  promised  those  who  would  take  tickets  to  the  main 
exhibition  should  have  entrance  gratis.  If  I  were 
writing  a  poem  you  would  expect,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  that  there  would  be  a  digression  now  and 
then. 

To  come  back  to  the  old  house  and  its  former  ten 
ant,  the  Professor  of  Hebrew  and  other  Oriental  lan 
guages.  Fifteen  years  he  lived  with  his  family  under 
its  roof.  I  never  found  the  slightest  trace  of  him 
until  a  few  years  ago,  when  I  cleaned  and  brightened 
with  pious  hands  the  brass  lock  of  "  the  study,"  which 
had  for  many  years  been  covered  with  a  thick  coat  of 
paint.  On  that  I  found  scratched,  as  with  a  nail  or 
fork,  the  following  inscription  :  — 

E  PE 

Only  that  and  nothing  more,  but  the  story  told  itself. 
Master  Edward  Pearson,  then  about  as  high  as  the 
lock,  was  disposed  to  immortalize  himself  in  monu 
mental  brass,  and  had  got  so  far  towards  it,  when  a 
sudden  interruption,  probably  a  smart  box  on  the  ear, 
cheated  him  of  his  fame,  except  so  far  as  this  poor 
record  may  rescue  it.  Dead  long  ago.  I  remember 
him  well,  a  grown  man,  as  a  visitor  at  a  later  period  ; 
and,  for  some  reason,  I  recall  him  in  the  attitude  of 


THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE.          213 

the  Colossus  of  Rhodes,  standing  full  before  a  gener 
ous  wood-fire,  not  facing  it,  but  quite  the  contrary,  a 
perfect  picture  of  the  content  afforded  by  a  blazing 
hearth  contemplated  from  that  point  of  view,  and,  as 
the  heat  stole  through  his  person  and  kindled  his 
emphatic  features,  seeming  to  me  a  pattern  of  manly 
beauty.  What  a  statue  gallery  of  posturing  friends 
we  all  have  in  our  memory !  The  old  Professor  him 
self  sometimes  visited  the  house  after  it  had  changed 
hands.  Of  course,  my  recollections  are  not  to  be 
wholly  trusted,  but  I  always  think  I  see  his  likeness 
in  a  profile  face  to  be  found  among  the  illustrations  of 
Rees's  Cyclopedia.  (See  Plates,  Vol.  IV.,  Plate  2, 
Painting,  Diversities  of  the  Human  Face,  Fig.  4.) 

And  now  let  us  return  to  our  chief  picture.  In  the 
days  of  my  earliest  remembrance,  a  row  of  tall  Lom- 
bardy  poplars  mounted  guard  on  the  western  side  of 
the  old  mansion.  Whether,  like  the  cypress,  these 
trees  suggest  the  idea  of  the  funeral  torch  or  the  mon 
umental  spire,  whether  their  tremulous  leaves  make  us 
afraid  by  sympathy  with  their  nervous  thrills,  whether 
the  faint  balsamic  smell  of  their  leaves  and  their 
closely  swathed  limbs  have  in  them  vague  hints  of 
dead  Pharaohs  stiffened  in  their  cerements,  I  will  not 
guess ;  but  they  always  seemed  to  me  to  give  an  air  of 
sepulchral  sadness  to  the  house  before  which  they 
stood  sentries.  Not  so  with  the  row  of  elms  which 
you  may  see  leading  up  towards  the  western  entrance ; 
I  think  the  patriarch  of  them  all  went  over  in  the 
great  gale  of  1815 ;  I  know  I  used  to  shake  the 
youngest  of  them  with  my  hands,  stout  as  it  is  now, 
with  a  trunk  that  would  defy  the  bully  of  Crotona,  or 
the  strong  man  whose  liaison  with  the  Lady  Delilah 
proved  so  disastrous. 


214  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

The  College  plain  would  be  nothing  without  its 
elms.  As  the  long  hair  of  a  woman  is  a  glory  to  her, 
so  are  these  green  tresses  that  bank  themselves  against 
the  sky  in  thick  clustered  masses,  the  ornament  and 
the  pride  of  the  classic  green.  You  know  the  "  Wash 
ington  elm,"  or  if  you  do  not,  you  had  better  rekindle 
your  patriotism  by  reading  the  inscription,  which  tells 
you  that  under  its  shadow  the  great  leader  first  drew 
his  sword  at  the  head  of  an  American  army.  In  a 
line  with  that  you  may  see  two  others :  the  coral  fan, 
as  I  always  called  it  from  its  resemblance  in  form  to 
that  beautiful  marine  growth,  and  a  third  a  little  far 
ther  along.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  all  three  were 
planted  at  the  same  time,  and  that  the  difference  of 
their  growth  is  due  to  the  slope  of  the  ground,  —  the 
Washington  elm  being  lower  than  either  of  the  others. 
There  is  a  row  of  elms  just  in  front  of  the  old  house 
on  the  south.  When  I  was  a  child  the  one  at  the 
southwest  corner  was  struck  by  lightning,  and  one  of 
its  limbs  and  a  long  ribbon  of  bark  torn  away.  The 
tree  never  fully  recovered  its  symmetry  and  vigor, 
and  forty  years  and  more  afterwards  a  second  thun 
derbolt  crashed  upon  it  and  set  its  heart  on  fire,  like 
those  of  the  lost  souls  in  the  Hall  of  Eblis.  Heaven 
had  twice  blasted  it,  and  the  axe  finished  what  the 
lightning  had  begun. 

The  soil  of  the  University  town  is  divided  into 
patches  of  sandy  and  of  clayey  ground.  The  Com 
mon  and  the  College  green,  near  which  the  old  house 
stands,  are  on  one  of  the  sandy  patches.  Four  curses 
are  the  local  inheritance  :  droughts,  dust,  mud,  and 
canker-worms.  I  cannot  but  think  that  all  the  char 
acters  of  a  region  help  to  modify  the  children  born  in 
it.  I  am  fond  of  making  apologies  for  human  nature, 


THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE.  215 

and  I  think  I  could  find  an  excuse  for  myself  if  I,  too, 
were  dry  and  barren  and  muddy-witted  and  "  cantan 
kerous,"  —  disposed  to  get  my  back  up,  like  those 
other  natives  of  the  soil. 

I  know  this,  that  the  way  Mother  Earth  treats  a 
boy  shapes  out  a  kind  of  natural  theology  for  him. 
I  fell  into  Manichean  ways  of  thinking  from  the 
teaching  of  my  garden  experiences.  Like  other  boys 
in  the  country,  I  had  my  patch  of  ground,  to  which, 
in  the  spring-time,  I  intrusted  the  seeds  furnished  me, 
with  a  confident  trust  in  their  resurrection  and  glori 
fication  in  the  better  world  of  summer.  But  I  soon 
found  that  my  lines  had  fallen  in  a  place  where  a 
vegetable  growth  had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  as  many 
foes  and  trials  as  a  Christian  pilgrim.  Flowers  would 
not  blow;  daffodils  perished  like  criminals  in  their 
condemned  caps,  without  their  petals  ever  seeing  day 
light;  roses  were  disfigured  with  monstrous  protru 
sions  through  their  very  centres,  —  something  that 
looked  like  a  second  bud  pushing  through  the  middle 
of  the  corolla ;  lettuces  and  cabbages  would  not  head  ; 
radishes  knotted  themselves  until  they  looked  like 
centenarians'  fingers ;  and  on  every  stem,  on  every 
leaf,  and  both  sides  of  it,  and  at  the  root  of  everything 
that  grew,  was  a  professional  specialist  in  the.  shape 
of  grub,  caterpillar,  aphis,  or  other  expert,  whose  busi 
ness  it  was  to  devour  that  particular  part,  and  help 
murder  the  whole  attempt  at  vegetation.  Such  expe 
riences  must  influence  a  child  born  to  them.  A  sandy 
soil,"  where  nothing  flourishes  but  weeds  and  evil 
beasts  of  small  dimensions,  must  breed  different  qual 
ities  in  its  human  offspring  from  one  of  those  fat  and 
fertile  spots  which  the  wit  whom  I  have  once  before 
quoted  described  so  happily  that,  if  I  quoted  the  pas- 


216  OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES. 

sage,1  its  brilliancy  would  spoil  one  of  ray  pages,  as  a 
diamond  breastpin  sometimes  kills  the  social  effect  of 
the  wearer,  who  might  have  passed  for  a  gentleman 
without  it.  Your  arid  patch  of  earth  should  seem  to 
be  the  natural  birthplace  of  the  leaner  virtues  and  the 
feebler  vices,  —  of  temperance  and  the  domestic  pro 
prieties  on  the  one  hand,  with  a  tendency  to  light 
weights  in  groceries  and  provisions,  and  to  clandes 
tine  abstraction  from  the  person  on  the  other,  as  op 
posed  to  the  free  hospitality,  the  broadly  planned  bur 
glaries,  and  the  largely  conceived  homicides  of  our 
rich  Western  alluvial  regions.  Yet  Nature  is  never 
wholly  unkind.  Economical  as  she  was  in  my  unpar- 
adised  Eden,  hard  as  it  was  to  make  some  of  my  floral 
houris  unveil,  still  the  damask  roses  sweetened  the 
June  breezes,  the  bladed  and  plumed  flower-de-luces 
unfolded  their  close-wrapped  cones,  and  larkspurs 
and  lupins,  lady's  delights,  —  plebeian  manifestations 
of  the  pansy,  —  self-sowing  marigolds,  hollyhocks,  the 
forest  flowers  of  two  seasons,  and  the  perennial  lilacs 
and  syringas,  —  all  whispered  to  the  winds  blowing 
over  them  that  some  caressing  presence  was  around 
me. 

Beyond  the  garden  was  "  the  field,"  a  vast  domain 
of  four  acres  or  thereabout,  by  the  measurement  of 
after  years,  bordered  to  the  north  by  a  fathomless 
chasm,  —  the  ditch  the  base-ball  players  of  the  present 
era  jump  over ;  on  the  east  by  unexplored  territory ; 
on  the  south  by  a  barren  inclosure,  where  the  red 
sorrel  proclaimed  liberty  and  equality  under  its  dra- 
peau  rouge,  and  succeeded  in  establishing  a  vegetable 

1  Possibly  in  reference  to  Douglas  Jerrold's  mot  of  a  certain 
fertile  district  :  "  Tickle  it  with  a  hoe  and  it  will  laugh  with  a 
harvest." 


THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE.  217 

commune  where  all  were  alike  poor,  mean,  sour,  and 
uninteresting ;  and  on  the  west  by  the  Common,  not 
then  disgraced  by  jealous  inclosures,  which  make  it 
look  like  a  cattle-market.  Beyond,  as  I  looked  round, 
were  the  Colleges,  the  meeting-house,  the  little  square 
market-house  long  vanished  ;  the  burial-ground  where 
the  dead  Presidents  stretched  their  weary  bones  un 
der  epitaphs  stretched  out  at  as  full  length  as  their 
subjects ;  the  pretty  church  where  the  gouty  tories 
used  to  kneel  on  their  hassocks ;  the  district  school- 
house,  and  hard  by  it  Ma'am  Hancock's  cottage, 
never  so  called  in  those  days,  but  rather  "  ten-footer ;  " 
then  houses  scattered  near  and  far,  open  spaces,  the 
shadowy  elms,  round  hilltops  in  the  distance,  and  over 
all  the  great  bowl  of  the  sky.  Mind  you,  this  was 
the  WORLD,  as  I  first  knew  it ;  terra  veteribus  cognita, 
as  Mr.  Arrowsmith  would  have  called  it,  if  he  had 
mapped  the  universe  of  my  infancy. 

But  I  am  forgetting  the  old  house  again  in  the 
landscape.  The  worst  of  a  modern  stylish  mansion  is, 
that  it  has  no  place  for  ghosts.  I  watched  one  build 
ing  hot  long  since.  It  had  no  proper  garret,  to  be 
gin  with,  only  a  sealed  interval  between  the  roof 
and  attics,  where  a  spirit  could  not  be  accommo 
dated,  unless  it  were  flattened  out  like  Ravel,  Brother, 
after  the  mill -stone  had  fallen  on  him.  There  was 
not  a  nook  or  a  corner  in  the  whole  house  fit  to  lodge 
any  respectable  ghost,  for  every  part  was  as  open 
to  observation  as  a  literary  man's  character  and  con 
dition,  his  figure  and  estate,  his  coat  and  his  counte 
nance,  are  to  his  (or  her)  Bohemian  Majesty  on  a 
tour  of  inspection  through  his  (or  her)  subjects' 
keyholes. 

Now  the  old  house  had  wainscots,  behind  which  the 


218  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

mice  were  always  scampering  and  squeaking  and  rat 
tling  down  the  plaster,  and  enacting  family  scenes  and 
parlor  theatricals.  It  had  a  cellar  where  the  cold  slug 
clung  to  the  walls,  and  the  misanthropic  spider  with 
drew  from  the  garish  day;  where  the  green  mould 
loved  to  grow,  and  the  long,  white  potato-shoots  went 
feeling  along  the  floor,  if  haply  they  might  find  the 
daylight ;  it  had  great  brick  pillars,  always  in  a  cold 
sweat  with  holding  up  the  burden  they  had  been  ach 
ing  under  day  and  night  for  a  century  and  more ;  it 
had  sepulchral  arches  closed  by  rough  doors  that  hung 
on  hinges  rotten  with  rust,  behind  which  doors,  if 
there  was  not  a  heap  of  bones  connected  with  a  mys 
terious  disappearance  of  long  ago,  there  well  might 
have  been,  for  it  was  just  the  place  to  look  for  them. 
It  had  a  garret,  very  nearly  such  a  one  as  it  seems  to 
me  one  of  us  has  described  in  one  of  his  books ;  but 
let  us  look  at  this  one  as  I  can  reproduce  it  from 
memory.  It  has  a  flooring  of  laths  with  ridges  of 
mortar  squeezed  up  between  them,  which  if  you  tread 
on  you  will  go  to  —  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  you ! 
where  will  you  go  to  ?  —  the  same  being  crossed  by 
narrow  bridges  of  boards,  on  which  you  may  put  your 
feet,  but  with  fear  and  trembling.  Above  you  and 
around  you  are  beams  and  joists,  on  some  of  which 
you  may  see,  when  the  light  is  let  in,  the  marks  of  the 
conchoidal  clippings  of  the  broad-axe,  showing  the 
rude  way  in  which  the  timber  was  shaped  as  it  came, 
full  of  sap,  from  the  neighboring  forest.  It  is  a  realm 
of  darkness  and  thick  dust,  and  shroud-like  cobwebs 
and  dead  things  they  wrap  in  their  gray  folds.  For  a 
garret  is  like  a  sea-shore,  where  wrecks  are  thrown  up 
and  slowly  go  to  pieces.  There  is  the  cradle  which 
the  old  man  you  just  remember  was  rocked  in ;  there 


THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE.  219 

is  the  ruin  of  the  bedstead  he  died  on  ;  that  ugly 
slanting  contrivance  used  to  be  put  under  his  pillow 
in  the  days  when  his  breath  came  hard ;  there  is  his 
old  chair  with  both  arms  gone,  symbol  of  the  desolate 
time  when  he  had  nothing  earthly  left  to  lean  on  ; 
there  is  the  large  wooden  reel  which  the  blear-eyed 
old  deacon  sent  the  minister's  lady,  who  thanked  him 
graciously,  and  twirled  it  smilingly,  and  in  fitting  sea 
son  bowed  it  out  decently  to  the  limbo  of  troublesome 
conveniences.  And  there  are  old  leather  portman 
teaus,  like  stranded  porpoises,  their  mouths  gaping  in 
gaunt  hunger  for  the  food  with  which  they  used  to  be 
gorged  to  bulging  repletion  ;  and  old  brass  andirons, 
waiting  until  time  shall  revenge  them  on  their  paltry 
substitutes,  and  they  shall  have  their  own  again,  and 
bring  with  them  the  fore-stick  and  the  back-log  of 
ancient  days ;  and  the  empty  churn  with  its  idle 
dasher,  which  the  Nancys  and  Phoabes,  who  have  left 
their  comfortable  places  to  the  Bridgets  and  Norahs, 
used  to  handle  to  good  purpose ;  and  the  brown, 
shaky  old  spinning-wheel,  which  was  running,  it  may 
be,  in  the  days  when  they  were  hanging  the  Salem 
witches. 

Under  the  dark  and  haunted  garret  were  attic 
chambers  which  themselves  had  histories.  On  a  pane 
in  the  northeastern  chamber  may  be  read  these  names : 
"  John  Tracy,"  "  Robert  Roberts,"  "  Thomas  Prince ;  " 
"  Stultus  "  another  hand  had  added.  When  I  found 
these  names  a  few  years  ago  (wrong  side  up,  for  the 
window  had  been  reversed),  I  looked  at  once  in  the 
Triennial  to  find  them,  for  the  epithet  showed  that 
they  were  probably  students.  I  found  them  all  under 
the  years  1771  and  1773.  Does  it  please  their  thin 
ghosts  thus  to  be  dragged  to  the  light  of  day  ?  Has 


220  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 

"  Stultus  "  forgiven  the  indignity  of  being  thus  char< 
acterized  ? 

The  southeast  chamber  was  the  Library  Hospital. 
Every  scholar  should  have  a  book  infirmary  attached 
to  his  library.  There  should  find  a  peaceable  refuge 
the  many  books,  invalids  from  their  birth,  which  are 
sent  "  with  the  best  regards  of  the  Author ; "  the 
respected,  but  unpresentable  cripples  which  have  lost 
a  cover ;  the  odd  volumes  of  honored  sets  which  go 
mourning  all  their  days  for  their  lost  brother ;  the 
school-books  which  have  been  so  often  the  subjects  of 
assault  and  battery,  that  they  look  as  if  the  police 
court  must  know  them  by  heart ;  these,  and  still  more 
the  pictured  story-books,  beginning  with  Mother 
Goose  (which  a  dear  old  friend  of  mine1  has  just 
been  amusing  his  philosophic  leisure  with  turning 
most  ingeniously  and  happily  into  the  tongues  of 
Virgil  and  Homer),  will  be  precious  mementos  by  and 
by,  when  children  and  grandchildren  come  along. 
What  would  I  not  give  for  the  dear  little  paper-bound 
quarto,  in  large  and  most  legible  type,  on  certain 
pages  of  which  the  tender  hand  that  was  the  shield  of 
my  infancy  had  crossed  out  with  deep  black  marks 
something  awful,  probably  about  BEARS,  such  as  once 
tare  two-and-forty  of  us  little  folks  for  making  faces, 
and  the  very  name  of  which  made  us  hide  our  heads 
under  the  bed-clothes. 

I  made  strange  acquaintances  in  that  book  infirm 
ary  up  in  the  southeast  attic.  The  "  Negro  Plot  "  at 
New  York  helped  to  implant  a  feeling  in  me  which  it 
took  Mr.  Garrison  a  good  many  years  to  root  out. 

1  XrjvcfSta  [Chenodia],  or  the  classical  Mother  Goose.  Argutos 
inter  strepere  anser  olores.  [By  Dr.  Jacob  Bigelow.]  Cambridge; 
Printed  (not  published),  University  Press,  1871. 


THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE.  221 

M  Thinks  I  to  Myself,"  an  old  novel,  which  has  been 
attributed  to  a  famous  statesman,1  introduced  me  to  a 
world  of  fiction  which  was  not  represented  on  the 
shelves  of  the  library  proper,  unless  perhaps  by  "  Cce- 
lebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife,"  or  allegories  of  the  bitter 
tonic  class,  as  the  young  doctor  that  sits  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table  would  probably  call  them.  I  always, 
from  an  early  age,  had  a  keen  eye  for  a  story  with  a 
moral  sticking  out  of  it,  and  gave  it  a  wide  berth, 
though  in  my  later  years  I  have  myself  written  a 
couple  of  "  medicated  novels,"  as  one  of  my  dearest 
and  pleasantest  old  friends  wickedly  called  them, 
when  somebody  asked  her  if  she  had  read  the  last  of 
my  printed  performances.  I  forgave  the  satire  for 
the  charming  esprit  of  the  epithet.  Besides  the  works 
I  have  mentioned,  there  was  an  old,  old  Latin  alchemy 
book,  with  the  manuscript  annotations  of  some  ancient 
Rosicrucian,  in  the  pages  of  which  I  had  a  vague  no 
tion  that  I  might  find  the  mighty  secret  of  the  Lapis 
Philosophorum,  otherwise  called  Chaos,  the  Dragon, 
the  Green  Lion,  the  Quinta  JSssentia,  the  Soap  of 
Sages,  the  Vinegar  of  Philosophers,  the  Dew  of  Heav 
enly  Grace,  the  Egg,  the  Old  Man,  the  Sun,  the 
Moon,  and  by  all  manner  of  odd  aliases,  as  I  am  as 
sured  by  the  plethoric  little  book  before  me,  in  parch 
ment  covers  browned  like  a  meerschaum  with  the 
smoke  of  furnaces  and  the  thumbing  of  dead  gold- 
seekers,  and  the  fingering  of  bony-handed  book-misers, 
and  the  long  intervals  of  dusty  slumber  on  the  shelves 
of  the  bouquiniste  ;  for  next  year  it  will  be  three  cen 
turies  old,  and  it  had  already  seen  nine  generations  of 
men  when  I  caught  its  eye  (Alchemice  Doctrina)  and 

1  George  Canning.     The  actual  author  of  the  novel  was  an 
English  clergyman,  Rev.  Edward  Nares. 


222  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

recognized  it  at  pistol-shot  distance  as  a  prize,  among 
the  breviaries  and  Heures  and  trumpery  volumes  of 
the  old  open-air  dealer  who  exposed  his  treasures  un 
der  the  shadow  of  St.  Sulpice.  I  have  never  lost  my 
taste  for  alchemy  since  I  first  got  hold  of  the  "  Palla 
dium  Spagyricum  "  of  Peter  John  Faber,  and  sought 
— in  vain,  it  is  true — through  its  pages  for  a  clear,  in 
telligible,  and  practical  statement  of  how  I  could  turn 
my  lead  sinkers  and  the  weights  of  the  tall  kitchen 
clock  into  good  yellow  gold,  specific  gravity  19.2,  and 
exchangeable  for  whatever  I  then  wanted,  and  for 
many  more  things  than  I  was  then  aware  of.  One  of 
the  greatest  pleasures  of  childhood  is  found  in  the 
mysteries  which  it  hides  from  the  skepticism  of  the 
elders,  and  works  up  into  small  mythologies  of  its  own. 
I  have  seen  all  this  played  over  again  in  adult  life,  — 
the  same  delightful  bewilderment  of  semi-emotional 
belief  in  listening  to  the  gaseous  promises  of  this  or 
that  fantastic  system,  that  I  found  in  the  pleasing  mi 
rages  conjured  up  for  me  by  the  ragged  old  volume  I 
used  to  pore  over  in  the  southeast  attic-chamber. 

The  rooms  of  the  second  story,  the  chambers  of 
birth  and  death,  are  sacred  to  silent  memories. 

Let  us  go  down  to  the  ground-floor.  I  should  have 
begun  with  this,  but  that  the  historical  reminscences 
of  the  old  house  have  been  recently  told  in  a  most  in 
teresting  memoir  by  a  distinguished  student  of  our  lo 
cal  history. l  I  retain  my  doubts  about  those  "  dents  " 
on  the  floor  of  the  right-hand  room,  "  the  study  "  of 
successive  occupants,  said  to  have  been  made  by  the 
butts  of  the  Continental  militia's  firelocks,  but  this 
was  the  cause  the  story  told  me  in  childhood  laid  them 

1  See  Old  Cambridge  and  New,  by  Thomas  C.  Amory.  Bos 
ton,  1871. 


THE   GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE.  223 

to.  That  military  consultations  were  held  in  that  room 
when  the  house  was  General  Ward's  headquarters, 
that  the  Provincial  generals  and  colonels  and  other 
men  of  war  there  planned  the  movement  which  ended 
in  the  fortifying  of  Bunker's  Hill,  that  Warren  slept 
in  the  house  the  night  before  the  battle,  that  Presi 
dent  Langdon  went  forth  from  the  western  door  and 
prayed  for  God's  blessing  on  the  men  just  setting 
forth  on  their  bloody  expedition,  —  all  these  things 
have  been  told,  and  perhaps  none  of  them  need  be 
doubted. 

But  now  for  fifty  years  and  more  that  room  has 
been  a  meeting-ground  for  the  platoons  and  companies 
which  range  themselves  at  the  scholar's  word  of  com 
mand.  Pleasant  it  is  to  think  that  the  retreating  host 
of  books  is  to  give  place  to  a  still  larger  army  of  vol 
umes,  which  have  seen  service  under  the  eye  of  a  great 
commander.  For  here  the  noble  collection  of  him  so 
freshly  remembered  as  our  silver-tongued  orator,  our 
erudite  scholar,  our  honored  College  President,  our 
accomplished  statesman,  our  courtly  ambassador,  are 
to  be  reverently  gathered  by  the  heir  of  his  name, 
himself  not  unworthy  to  be  surrounded  by  that  august 
assembly  of  the  wise  of  all  ages  and  of  various  lands 
and  languages.1 

Could  such  a  many-chambered  edifice  have  stood  a 
century  and  a  half  and  not  have  had  its  passages  of 
romance  to  bequeath  their  lingering  legends  to  the 
after-time?  There  are  other  names  on  some  of  the 
small  window-panes,  which  must  have  had  young  flesh- 
and-blood  owners,  and  there  is  one  of  early  date  which 
elderly  persons  have  whispered  was  borne  by  a  fair 
woman,  whose  graces  made  the  house  beautiful  in  the 

1  William  Everett,  at  that  time  one  of  the  College  Faculty. 


224  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 

eyes  of  the  youth  of  that  time.  One  especially  — you 
will  find  the  name  of  Fortescue  Vernon,  of  the  class 
of  1780,  in  the  Triennial  Catalogue  —  was  a  favored 
visitor  to  the  old  mansion ;  but  he  went  over  seas,  I 
think  they  told  me,  and  died  still  young,  and  the  name 
of  the  maiden  which  is  scratched  on  the  window-pane 
was  never  changed.  I  am  telling  the  story  honestly, 
as  I  remember  it,  but  I  may  have  colored  it  uncon 
sciously,  and  the  legendary  pane  may  be  broken  before 
this  for  aught  I  know.  At  least,  I  have  named  no 
names  except  the  beautiful  one  of  the  supposed  hero 
of  the  romantic  story. 

It  was  a  great  happiness  to  have  been  born  in  an 
old  house  haunted  by  such  recollections,  with  harm 
less  ghosts  walking  its  corridors,  with  fields  of  waving 
grass  and  trees  and  singing  birds,  and  that  vast  terri 
tory  of  four  or  five  acres  around  it  to  give  a  child  the 
sense  that  he  was  born  to  a  noble  principality.  It  has 
been  a  great  pleasure  to  retain  a  certain  hold  upon  it 
for  so  many  years  ;  and  since  in  the  natural  course  of 
things  it  must  at  length  pass  into  other  hands,  it  is  a 
gratification  to  see  the  old  place  making  itself  tidy  for 
a  new  tenant,  like  some  venerable  dame  who  is  getting 
ready  to  entertain  a  neighbor  of  condition.  Not  long 
since  a  new  cap  of  shingles  adorned  this  ancient  mo 
ther  among  the  village  —  now  city  —  mansions.  She 
has  dressed  herself  in  brighter  colors  than  she  has 
hitherto  worn,  so  they  tell  me,  within  the  last  few 
days.  She  has  modernized  her  aspects  in  several 
ways  ;  she  has  rubbed  bright  the  glasses  through  which 
she  looks  at  the  Common  and  the  Colleges  ;  and  as 
the  sunsets  shine  upon  her  through  the  flickering 
leaves  or  the  wiry  spray  of  the  elms  I  remember  from 
my  childhood,  they  will  glorify  her  into  the  aspect  she 


THE   GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE.  225 

wore  when  President  Holyoke,  father  of  our  long 
since  dead  centenarian,1  looked  upon  her  youthful 
comeliness. 

The  quiet  corner  formed  by  this  and  the  neighbor 
ing  residences  has  changed  less  than  any  place  I  can 
remember.  Our  kindly,  polite,  shrewd,  and  humorous 
old  neighbor,  who  in  former  days  has  served  the  town 
as  constable  and  auctioneer,2  and  who  bids  fair  to 
become  the  oldest  inhabitant  of  the  city,  was  there 
when  I  was  born,  and  is  living  there  to-day.  By  and 
by  the  stony  foot  of  the  great  University  will  plant 
itself  on  this  whole  territory,  and  the  private  recol 
lections  which  clung  so  tenaciously  and  fondly  to  the 
place  and  its  habitations  will  have  died  with  those 
who  cherished  them. 

Shall  they  ever  live  again  in  the  memory  of  those 
who  loved  them  here  below  ?  What  is  this  life  with 
out  the  poor  accidents  which  made  it  our  own,  and  by 
which  we  identify  ourselves  ?  Ah  me !  I  might  like 
to  be  a  winged  chorister,  but  still  it  seems  to  me  I 
should  hardly  be  quite  happy  if  I  could  not  recall  at 
will  the  Old  House  with  the  Long  Entry,  and  the 
White  Chamber  (where  I  wrote  the  first  verses  3  that 
made  me  known,  with  a  pencil,  stems  pede  in  uno, 
pretty  nearly),  and  the  Little  Parlor,  and  the  Study, 
and  the  old  books  in  uniforms  as  varied  as  those  o£ 
the  Ancient  and  Honorable  Artillery  Company  used 
to  be,  if  my  memory  serves  me  right,  and  the  front 
yard  with  the  stars  of  Bethlehem  growing,  flowerless, 
among  the  grass,  and  the  dear  faces  to  be  seen  no  more 
there  or  anywhere  on  this  earthly  place  of  farewells. 

1  Dr.  Edward  Augustus  Holyoke,  who  died  in  1829,  aged  101 
years. 

2  Royall  Morse.  *  Were  not  these  Old  Ironsides  f 


226  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

I  have  told  ray  story.  I  do  not  know  what  special 
gifts  have  been  granted  or  denied  me ;  but  this  I  know, 
that  I  am  like  so  many  others  of  my  fellow-creatures, 
that  when  I  smile,  I  feel  as  if  they  must ;  when  I  cry, 
I  think  their  eyes  fill ;  and  it  always  seems  to  me  that 
when  I  am  most  truly  myself  I  come  nearest  to  them 
and  am  surest  of  being  listened  to  by  the  brothers 
and  sisters  of  the  larger  family  into  which  I  was  born 
so  long  ago.  I  have  often  feared  they  might  be  tired 
of  me  and  what  I  tell  them.  But  then,  perhaps, 
would  come  a  letter  from  some  quiet  body  in  some 
out-of-the-way  place,  which  showed  me  that  I  had  said 
something  which  another  had  often  felt  but  never 
said,  or  told  the  secret  of  another's  heart  in  unburden 
ing  my  own.  Such  evidences  that  one  is  in  the  high 
way  of  human  experience  and  feeling  lighten  the  foot 
steps  wonderfully.  So  it  is  that  one  is  encouraged  to 
go  on  writing  as  long  as  the  world  has  anything  that 
interests  him,  for  he  never  knows  how  many  of  his 
fellow-beings  he  may  please  or  profit,  and  in  how 
many  places  his  name  will  be  spoken  as  that  of  a 
friend.1 

1  A  pleasant  paper  of  reminiscences  of  Cambridge  will  be 
found  in  Lowell's  Fireside  Travels,  entitled  Cambridge  Thirty 
Years  Ago.  See  also  Dr.  Holmes's  Cinders  from  the  Ashes,  and 
a  short  paper  on  The  Old  Court-House,  by  his  brother,  John 
Holmes,  in  The  Cambridge  of  1776  ;  and  T.  C.  Amory's  Old 
Cambridge  and  New,  already  referred  to. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


INTRODUCTION. 

IT  has  sometimes  seemed  to  the  casual  observer  that 
Lowell  had  a  divided  interest  in  his  literary  life,  passing 
from  poetry  to  prose,  and  back  to  poetry,  as  if  he  found  it 
difficult  to  determine  in  which  direction  his  power  lay.  But 
a  closer  student  will  remark  how  very  large  a  proportion  of 
Lowell's  prose  is  the  record  of  his  studies  in  poetry.  His 
first  venture  in  literature  was  poetic,  when  he  published, 
not  long  after  graduation  from  college,  the  volume  of 
poems,  A  Year's  Life  ;  but  the  opening  words  of  the  dedi 
cation  of  that  book  hint  at  studies  which  had  been  begun 
long  before,  and  were  carried  on  with  unflagging  zeal 
ever  after.  Three  years  later  he  published  Conversations 
on  Some  of  the  Old  Poets,  a  book  now  out  of  print ;  and 
any  one  reading  the  titles  of  the  papers  which  comprise  the 
six  volumes  of  his  prose  writings  will  readily  see  how  much 
literature,  and  especially  poetic  literature,  occupied  his  at 
tention.  Shakespeare,  Dryden,  Lessing,  Rousseau,  Dante, 
Spenser,  Wordsworth,  Milton,  Keats,  Carlyle,  Percival, 
Thoreau,  Swinburne,  Chaucer,  Emerson,  Pope,  —  these  are 
the  principal  subjects  of  his  prose,  and  the  range  of  topics 
indicates  the  catholicity  of  his  taste. 

It  is  more  correct,  therefore,  to  regard  Lowell  as  prima 
rily  a  poet,  who  published  also  the  results  of  a  scholar 
ship  which  busied  itself  chiefly  about  poetry.  The  com 
ments  of  a  poet  about  other  poets  are  always  of  interest, 
and  the  first  question  usually  asked  of  a  young  poet  is: 


228  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

What  master  has  he  followed  ?  The  answer  is  generally  to 
be  found  in  the  verse  itself,  which  betrays  the  influence  of 
other  and  older  poets.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  while 
here  and  there  one  may  trace  special  influences  in  Lowell's 
poetry,  —  as,  for  example,  of  Keats,  —  the  more  noticeable 
influence  is  in  the  converging  force  of  the  great  features  of 
historic  poetry,  so  that  there  is  no  echo  of  any  one  poet  or 
conscious  imitation  of  a  poetic  school ;  but  poetry  as  inter 
preted  by  the  masters  of  song,  in  consenting  form  and 
spirit,  reappears  in  his  verse. 

It  must  not  be  inferred  from  this  that  the  source  of 
Lowell's  poetic  inspiration  is  wholly  or  in  great  part  liter 
ary.  It  is  only  to  say  that  as  a  poet  he  was  also  a  pro 
found  student  of  poetry  ;  the  great  impulses  which  have 
stirred  other  poets  moved  him  also.  These  impulses  are 
nature,  humanity,  and  literature ;  we  have  noticed  briefly 
his  studies  in  literature ;  there  the  immediate  result  is  less 
distinguishable  in  his  poetry  than  in  his  prose,  the  great 
bulk  of  which,  as  noted,  is  composed  of  critical  observa 
tions  on  poetry.  For  his  studies  in  nature  we  must  look 
most  directly  to  his  verse.  There  will  be  found  the  evi 
dence  of  his  keen  delight,  his  quick  ear  and  eye,  his  fine 
apprehension ;  and  as  poetry  offers  the  most  ready  outlet 
for  enthusiasm  in  the  phenomena  of  nature,  so  Lowell  the 
poet  has  sung  of  nature  rather  than  written  of  her.  But 
one  may  find  a  small  section  of  his  essays  devoted  to  this 
field,  and  the  paper  which  we  have  taken,  My  Garden  Ac 
quaintance,  belongs  in  the  group. 

It  was  said  of  the  great  landscape  painter  of  modern 
days,  by  his  disciple  and  interpreter,  that  in  all  his  pictures 
he  introduced  the  human  figure  not  for  the  sake  of  color,  or 
to  hint  at  proportions,  but  because  to  him  nature  was  empty 
without  the  thought  of  humanity.  This  third  great  inspira 
tion  was  the  most  prominent  in  Lowell's  poetry,  and  it  was 
the  cause  of  an  important  part  of  his  prose  writings.  It  is 
not  always  to  be  distinguished  from  the  bookish  influences 


INTRODUCTION.  229 

which  we  have  noted,  for  in  studying  poetry  he  was  alive 
to  the  personality  of  the  poets ;  but  it  finds  its  strongest 
expression  in  a  few  papers  devoted  to  history  and  politics, 
such  as  his  papers  on  Witchcraft,  New  England  Two  Cen 
turies  Ago,  A  Great  Public  Character,  Abraham,  Lincoln, 
and  certain  political  essays  originally  published  in  maga 
zines. 

Throughout  his  prose  works  run  the  same  characteristics 
to  be  noted  in  his  poetry ;  but  the  form  of  prose  is  necessa 
rily  more  favorable  to  the  exhibition  of  powers  of  analysis 
and  of  a  discursive  faculty  which  leads  one  to  illustrate  his 
subject  by  frequent  reference  to  matters  of  history  or  art. 
The  play  upon  words  also  belongs  rather  to  prose  than  to 
poetry,  and  in  general  we  may  say  that  the  rambles  of  a 
writer  are  freer  and  more  natural  within  the  unconstrained 
limits  of  prose.  Thus  the  associative  power  of  Lowell's 
mind,  that  gift  which,  abundantly  fed  by  reading,  enables 
him  to  suggest  indefinitely  new  combinations  of  thought,  is 
most  delightfully  displayed  in  his  prose.  The  quickness 
with  which  he  seizes  upon  the  natural  suggestions  of  his 
subject  and  the  deftness  with  which  he  weaves  them  into 
the  changing  web  of  his  fabric  constitute  a  surprise  and 
delight  to  the  reader,  and  beneath  all  the  subtlety  of  thought 
and  richness  of  fancy  there  is  a  substance  of  common  sense 
and  sound  judgment  which  commend  themselves  to  our  lat 
est  thought  upon  his  work. 

My  Garden  Acquaintance  was  first  published  in  the 
Atlantic  Almanac  for  1869.  Abraham  Lincoln  appeared 
in  the  North  American  Review  for  January,  1864  ;  when 
it  was  reprinted  later  a  few  changes  were  made  and  the 
final  paragraph  was  added.  Books  and  Libraries  was  an 
address  given  at  the  opening  of  the  Free  Public  Library  in 
Chelsea,  Mass.,  December  22,  1885. 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE. 

ONE  of  the  most  delightful  books  in  my  father's 
library  was  White's  "  Natural  History  of  Selborne." 
For  me  it  has  rather  gained  in  charm  with  years.  I 
used  to  read  it  without  knowing  the  secret  of  the 
pleasure  I  found  in  it,  but  as  I  grow  older  I  begin  to 
detect  some  of  the  simple  expedients  of  this  natural 
magic.  Open  the  book  where  you  will,  it  takes  you 
out  of  doors.  In  our  broiling  July  weather  one  can 
walk  out  with  this  genially  garrulous  Fellow  of  Oriel 
and  find  refreshment  instead  of  fatigue.  You  have  no 
trouble  in  keeping  abreast  of  him  as  he  ambles  along 
on  his  hobby-horse,  now  pointing  to  a  pretty  view, 
now  stopping  to  watch  the  motions  of  a  bird  or  an 
insect,  or  to  bag  a  specimen  for  the  Honorable  Daines 
Barrington  or  Mr.  Pennant.  In  simplicity  of  taste 
and  natural  refinement  he  reminds  one  of  Walton  ;  in 
tenderness  toward  what  he  would  have  called  the  brute 
creation,  of  Cowper.  I  do  not  know  whether  his  descrip 
tions  of  scenery  are  good  or  not,  but  they  have  made 
me  familiar  with  his  neighborhood.  Since  I  first  read 
him,  I  have  walked  over  some  of  his  favorite  haunts, 
but  I  still  see  them  through  his  eyes  rather  than  by 
any  recollection  of  actual  and  personal  vision.  The 
book  has  also  the  delightfulness  of  absolute  leisure. 
Mr.  White  seems  never  to  have  had  any  harder  work 
to  do  than  to  study  the  habits  of  his  feathered  fellow- 
townsfolk,  or  to  watch  the  ripening  of  his  peaches  on 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  231 

the  wall.  His  volumes  are  the  journal  of  Adam  in 
Paradise, 

"  Annihilating  all  that 's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade." 

It  is  positive  rest  only  to  look  into  that  garden  of  his. 
It  is  vastly  better  than  to 

"  See  great  Diocletian  walk 
In  the  Salonian  garden's  noble  shade," 

for  thither  ambassadors  intrude  to  bring  with  them 
the  noises  of  Rome,  while  here  the  world  has  no  en 
trance.  No  rumor  of  the  revolt  of  the  American  Col 
onies  seems  to  have  reached  him.  "  The  natural  term 
of  an  hog's  life  "  has  more  interest  for  him  than  that 
of  an  empire.  Burgoyne  may  surrender  and  welcome  ; 
of  what  consequence  is  that  compared  with  the  fact 
that  we  can  explain  the  odd  tumbling  of  rooks  in  the 
air  by  their  turning  over  "  to  scratch  themselves  with 
one  claw "  ?  All  the  couriers  in  Europe  spurring 
rowel-deep  make  no  stir  in  Mr.  White's  little  Char 
treuse  ; 1  but  the  arrival  of  the  house-martin  a  day  ear 
lier  or  later  than  last  year  is  a  piece  of  news  worth 
sending  express  to  all  his  correspondents. 

Another  secret  charm  of  this  book  is  its  inadvertent 
humor,  so  much  the  more  delicious  because  unsus 
pected  by  the  author.  How  pleasant  is  his  innocent 
vanity  in  adding  to  the  list  of  the  British,  and  still 
more  of  the  Selbornian,yawwo/  I  believe  he  would 
gladly  have  consented  to  be  eaten  by  a  tiger  or  a  croc 
odile,  if  by  that  means  the  occasional  presence  within 
the  parish  limits  of  either  of  these  anthropophagous 
brutes  could  have  been  established.  He  brags  of  no 

1  La  Grande  Chartreuse  was  the  original  Carthusian  monas 
tery  in  France,  where  the  most  austere  privacy  was  maintained. 


232  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

fine  society,  but  is  plainly  a  little  elated  by  "  having 
considerable  acquaintance  with  a  tame  brown  owl." 
Most  of  us  have  known  our  share  of  owls,  but  few  can 
boast  of  intimacy  with  a  feathered  one.  The  great 
events  of  Mr.  White's  life,  too,  have  that  dispropor 
tionate  importance  which  is  always  humorous.  To 
think  of  his  hands  having  actually  been  thought  wor 
thy  (as  neither  Willoughby's  nor  Ray's  were)  to  hold 
a  stilted  plover,  the  Charadrfus  himaniopus,  with  no 
back  toe,  and  therefore  "  liable,  in  speculation,  to  per 
petual  vacillations  "  !  I  wonder,  by  the  way,  if  meta 
physicians  have  no  hind  toes.  In  1770  he  makes  the 
acquaintance  in  Sussex  of  "  an  old  family  tortoise," 
which  had  then  been  domesticated  for  thirty  years. 
It  is  clear  that  he  fell  in  love  with  it  at  first  sight. 
We  have  no  means  of  tracing  the  growth  of  his  pas 
sion  ;  but  in  1780  we  find  him  eloping  with  its  object 
in  a  post-chaise.  '•  The  rattle  and  hurry  of  the  jour 
ney  so  perfectly  roused  it  that,  when  I  turned  it  out 
in  a  border,  it  walked  twice  down  to  the  bottom  of 
my  garden."  It  reads  like  a  Court  Journal :  "  Yes 
terday  morning  H.  R.  H.  the  Princess  Alice  took  an 
airing  of  half  an  hour  on  the  terrace  of  Windsor  Cas 
tle."  This  tortoise  might  have  been  a  member  of  the 
Royal  Society,  if  he  could  have  condescended  to  so 
ignoble  an  ambition.  It  had  but  just  been  discovered 
that  a  surface  inclined  at  a  certain  angle  with  the  plane 
of  the  horizon  took  more  of  the  sun's  rays.  The  tor 
toise  had  always  known  this  (though  he  unostenta 
tiously  made  no  parade  of  it),  and  used  accordingly  to 
tilt  himself  up  against  the  garden-wall  in  the  autumn. 
He  seems  to  have  been  more  of  a  philosopher  than 
even  Mr.  White  himself,  caring  for  nothing  but  to 
get  under  a  cabbage-leaf  when  it  rained,  or  the  sun 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  233 

was  too  hot,  and  to  bury  himself  alive  before  frost, — a 
four-footed  Diogenes,  who  carried  his  tub  on  his  back. 
There  are  moods  in  which  this  kind  of  history  is 
infinitely  ref reshihg.  These  creatures  whom  we  affect 
to  look  down  upon  as  the  drudges  of  instinct  are  mem 
bers  of  a  commonwealth  whose  constitution  rests  on 
immovable  bases.  Never  any  need  of  reconstruction 
there  !  They  never  dream  of  settling  it  by  vote  that 
eight  hours  are  equal  to  ten,  or  that  one  creature  is 
as  clever  as  another  and  no  more.  They  do  not  use 
their  poor  wits  in  regulating  God's  clocks,  nor  think 
they  cannot  go  astray  so  long  as  they  carry  their 
guide-board  about  with  them,  —  a  delusion  we  often 
practise  upon  ourselves  with  our  high  and  mighty  rea 
son,  that  admirable  finger-post  which  points  every  way 
and  always  right.  It  is  good  for  us  now  and  then  to 
converse  with  a  world  like  Mr.  White's,  where  Man 
is  the  least  important  of  animals.  But  one  who,  like 
me,  has  always  lived  in  the  country  and  always  on  the 
same  spot,  is  drawn  to  his  book  by  other  occult  sym 
pathies.  Do  we  not  share  his  indignation  at  that 
stupid  Martin  who  had  graduated  his  thermometer  no 
lower  than  4°  above  zero  of  Fahrenheit,  so  that  in  the 
coldest  weather  ever  known  the  mercury  basely  ab 
sconded  into  the  bulb,  and  left  us  to  see  the  victory 
slip  through  our  fingers,  just  as  they  were  closing 
upon  it  ?  No  man,  I  suspect,  ever  lived  long  in  the 
country  without  being  bitten  by  these  meteorological 
ambitions.  He  likes  to  be  hotter  and  colder,  to  have 
been  more  deeply  snowed  up,  to  have  more  trees  and 
larger  blow  down  than  his  neighbors.  With  us  de 
scendants  of  the  Puritans  especially,  these  weather- 
competitions  supply  the  abnegated  excitement  of  the 
race-course.  Men  learn  to  value  thermometers  of  the 


234  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

true  imaginative  temperament,  capable  of  prodigious 
elations  and  corresponding  dejections.  The  other  day 
(5th  July)  I  marked  98°  in  the  shade,  my  high  water 
mark,  higher  by  one  degree  than  I  had  ever  seen  it  be 
fore.  I  happened  to  meet  a  neighbor  ;  as  we  mopped 
our  brows  at  each  other,  he  told  me  that  he  had  just 
cleared  100°,  and  I  went  home  a  beaten  man.  I  had 
not  felt  the  heat  before,  save  as  a  beautiful  exaggera 
tion  of  sunshine ;  but  now  it  oppressed  me  with  the 
prosaic  vulgarity  of  an  oven.  What  had  been  poetic 
intensity  became  all  at  once  rhetorical  hyperbole.  I 
might  suspect  his  thermometer  (as  indeed  I  did,  for 
we  Harvard  men  are  apt  to  think  ill  of  any  gradua 
tion  but  our  own)  ;  but  it  was  a  poor  consolation. 
The  fact  remained  that  his  herald  Mercury,  standing 
a  tiptoe,  could  look  down  on  mine.  I  seem  to  glimpse 
something  of  this  familiar  weakness  in  Mr.  White. 
He,  too,  has  shared  in  these  mercurial  triumphs  and 
defeats.  Nor  do  I  doubt  that  he  had  a  true  country- 
gentleman's  interest  in  the  weather-cock  ;  that  his  first 
question  on  coming  down  of  a  morning  was,  like  Bara- 
bas's, 

"  Into  what  quarter  peers  my  halcyon's  bill  ?  " 

It  is  an  innocent  and  healthful  employment  of  the 
mind,  distracting  one  from  too  continual  study  of  him 
self,  and  leading  him  to  dwell  rather  upon  the  indi 
gestions  of  the  elements  than  his  own.  "Did  the 
wind  back  round,  or  go  about  with  the  sun?"  is  a 
rational  question  that  bears  not  remotely  on  the  mak 
ing  of  hay  and  the  prosperity  of  crops.  I  have  little 
doubt  that  the  regulated  observation  of  the  vane  in 
many  different  places,  and  the  interchange  of  results 
by  telegraph,  would  put  the  weather,  as  it  were,  in  our 
power,  by  betraying  its  ambushes  before  it  is  ready 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  235 

to  give  the  assault.  At  first  sight,  nothing  seems 
more  drolly  trivial  than  the  lives  of  those  whose  single 
achievement  is  to  record  the  wind  and  the  temper 
ature  three  times  a  day.  Yet  such  men  are  doubtless 
sent  into  the  world  for  this  special  end,  and  perhaps 
there  is  no  kind  of  accurate  observation,  whatever 
its  object,  that  has  not  its  final  use  and  value  for 
some  one  or  other.  It  is  even  to  be  hoped  that  the 
specidations  of  our  newspaper  editors  and  their  myriad 
correspondence  upon  the  signs  of  the  political  atmos 
phere  may  also  fill  their  appointed  place  in  a  well- 
regulated  universe,  if  it  be  only  that  of  supplying 
so  many  more  jack-o'-lanterns  to  the  future  historian. 
Nay,  the  observations  on  finance  of  an  M.  C.  whose 
sole  knowledge  of  the  subject  has  been  derived  from 
a  life-long  success  in  getting  a  living  out  of  the  public 
without  paying  any  equivalent  therefor,  will  perhaps 
be  of  interest  hereafter  to  some  explorer  of  our  cloaca 
maxima,  whenever  it  is  cleansed. 

For  many  years  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  noting 
down  some  of  the  leading  events  of  my  embowered 
solitude,  such  as  the  coming  of  certain  birds  and  the 
like,  —  a  kind  of  memoires  pour  servir,  after  the 
fashion  of  White,  rather  than  properly  digested  nat 
ural  history.  I  thought  it  not  impossible  that  a  few 
simple  stories  of  my  winged  acquaintances  might  be 
found  entertaining  by  persons  of  kindred  taste. 

There  is  a  common  notion  that  animals  are  better 
meteorologists  than  men,  and  I  have  little  doubt  that 
in  immediate  weather-wisdom  they  have  the  advan 
tage  of  our  sophisticated  senses  (though  I  suspect  a 
sailor  or  shepherd  would  be  their  match},  but  I  have 
seen  nothing  that  leads  me  to  believe  their  minds 
capable  of  erecting  the  horoscope  of  a  whole  season, 


236  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

and  letting  us  know  beforehand  whether  the  winter 
will  be  severe  or  the  summer  rainless.  I  more  than 
suspect  that  the  clerk  of  the  weather  himself  does  not 
always  know  very  long  in  advance  whether  he  is  to 
draw  an  order  for  hot  or  cold,  dry  or  moist,  and  the 
musquash  is  scarce  likely  to  be  wiser.  I  have  noted 
but  two  days'  difference  in  the  coming  of  the  song- 
sparrow  between  a  very  early  and  a  very  backward 
spring.  This  very  year  I  saw  the  linnets  at  work 
thatching,  just  before  a  snow-storm  which  covered  the 
ground  several  inches  deep  for  a  number  of  days. 
They  struck  work  and  left  us  for  a  while,  no  doubt  in 
search  of  food.  Birds  frequently  perish  from  sudden 
changes  in  our  whimsical  spring  weather  of  which 
they  had  no  foreboding.  More  than  thirty  years  ago, 
a  cherry-tree,  then  in  full  bloom,  near  my  window, 
was  covered  with  humming-birds  benumbed  by  a  fall 
of  mingled  rain  and  snow,  which  probably  killed  many 
of  them.  It  should  seem  that  their  coming  was  dated 
by  the  height  of  the  sun,  which  betrays  them  into 
unthrifty  matrimony  ; 

"  So  priketh  hem  Nature  in  hir  corages  ; "  * 

but  their  going  is  another  matter.  The  chimney  swal 
lows  leave  us  early,  for  example,  apparently  so  soon 
as  their  latest  fledglings  are  firm  enough  of  wing  to 
attempt  the  long  rowing-match  that  is  before  them. 
On  the  other  hand  the  wild-geese  probably  do  not 
leave  the  North  till  they  are  frozen  out,  for  I  have 
heard  their  bugles  sounding  southward  so  late  as  the 
middle  of  December.  What  may  be  called  local 
migrations  are  doubtless  dictated  by  the  chances  of 
food.  I  have  once  been  visited  by  large  flights  of 
1  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales,  Prologue,  line  11. 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  237 

cross-bills  ;  and  whenever  the  snow  lies  long  and  deep 
on  the  ground,  a  flock  of  cedar-birds  comes  in  mid 
winter  to  eat  the  berries  on  my  hawthorns.  I  have 
never  been  quite  able  to  fathom  the  local,  or  rather 
geographical  partialities  of  birds.  Never  before  this 
summer  (1870)  have  the  king-birds,  handsomest  of 
flycatchers,  built  in  my  orchard ;  though  I  always 
know  where  to  find  them  within  half  a  mile.  The 
rose-breasted  grosbeak  has  been  a  familiar  bird  in 
Brookline  (three  miles  away),  yet  I  never  saw  one 
here  till  last  July,  when  I  found  a  female  busy  among 
my  raspberries  and  surprisingly  bold.  I  hope  she  was 
prospecting  with  a  view  to  settlement  in  our  garden. 
She  seemed,  on  the  whole,  to  think  well  of  my  fruit, 
and  I  would  gladly  plant  another  bed  if  it  would  help 
to  win  over  so  delightful  a  neighbor. 

The  return  of  the  robin  is  commonly  announced 
by  the  newspapers,  like  that  of  eminent  or  notorious 
people  to  a  watering-place,  as  the  first  authentic  noti 
fication  of  spring.  And  such  his  appearance  in  the 
orchard  and  garden  undoubtedly  is.  But,  in  spite  of 
his  name  of  migratory  thrush,  he  stays  with  us  all 
winter,  and  I  have  seen  him  when  the  thermometer 
marked  15  degrees  below  zero  of  Fahrenheit,  armed 
impregnably  within,1  like  Emerson's  Titmouse,  and  as 
cheerful  as  he.  The  robin  has  a  bad  reputation 
among  people  who  do  not  value  themselves  less  for 
being  fond  of  cherries.  There  is,  I  admit,  a  spice  of 
vulgarity  in  him,  and  his  song  is  rather  of  the  Bloom- 
field  sort,  too  largely  ballasted  with  prose.  His  ethics 
are  of  the  Poor  Richard  school,  and  the  main  chance 

1  "  For  well  the  soul,  if  stout  within, 
Can  arm  impregnably  the  skin." 

The  Titmouse,  lines  75,  76. 


238  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

which  calls  forth  all  his  energy  is  altogether  of  the 
belly.  He  never  has  these  fine  intervals  of  lunacy 
into  which  his  cousins,  the  catbird  and  the  mavis,  are 
apt  to  fall.  But  for  a'  that  and  twice  as  muckle  's  a' 
that,  I  would  not  exchange  him  for  all  the  cherries 
that  ever  came  out  of  Asia  Minor.  With  whatever 
faults,  he  has  not  wholly  forfeited  that  superiority 
which  belongs  to  the  children  of  nature.  He  has  a 
finer  taste  in  fruit  than  could  be  distilled  from  many 
successive  committees  of  the  Horticultural  Society, 
and  he  eats  with  a  relishing  gulp  not  inferior  to  Dr. 
Johnson's.  He  feels  and  freely  exercises  his  right  of 
eminent  domain.  His  is  the  earliest  mess  of  green 
peas  ;  his  all  the  mulberries  I  had  fancied  mine.  But 
if  he  get  also  the  lion's  share  of  the  raspberries,  he  is 
a  great  planter,  and  sows  those  wild  ones  in  the  woods 
that  solace  the  pedestrian,  and  give  a  momentary  calm 
even  to  the  jaded  victims  of  the  White  Hills.  He 
keeps  a  strict  eye  over  one's  fruit,  and  knows  to  a 
shade  of  purple  when  your  grapes  have  cooked  long 
enough  in  the  sun.  During  the  severe  drought  a  few 
years  ago  the  robins  wholly  vanished  from  my  garden. 
I  neither  saw  nor  heard  one  for  three  weeks.  Mean 
while  a  small  foreign  grape-vine,  rather  shy  of  bear 
ing,  seemed  to  find  the  dusty  air  congenial,  and, 
dreaming,  perhaps  of  its  sweet  Argos  across  the  sea, 
decked  itself  with  a  score  or  so  of  fair  bunches.  I 
watched  them  from  day  to  day  till  they  should  have 
secreted  sugar  enough  from  the  sunbeams,  and  at  last 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  would  celebrate  my  vintage 
the  next  morning.  But  the  robins,  too,  had  somehow 
kept  note  of  them.  They  must  have  sent  out  spies,  ° 
did  the  Jews  into  the  promised  land,  before  I  was  sti 
ring.  When  I  went  with  my  basket  at  least  a  dozen 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  239 

of  these  winged  vintagers  bustled  out  from  among  the 
leaves,  and  alighting  on  the  nearest  trees  interchanged 
some  shrill  remarks  about  me  of  a  derogatory  nature. 
They  had  fairly  sacked  the  vine.  Not  Wellington's 
veterans  made  cleaner  work  of  a  Spanish  town  ;  not 
Federals  or  Confederates  were  ever  more  impartial  in 
the  confiscation  of  neutral  chickens.  I  was  keeping 
my  grapes  a  secret  to  surprise  the  fair  Fidele  with, 
but  the  robins  made  them  a  profounder  secret  to  her 
than  I  had  meant.  The  tattered  remnant  of  a  single 
bunch  was  all  my  harvest-home.  How  paltry  it  looked 
at  the  bottom  of  my  basket,  —  as  if  a  humming-bird 
had  laid  her  egg  in  an  eagle's  nest !  I  could  not  help 
laughing;  and  the  robins  seemed  to  join  heartily  in 
the  merriment.  There  was  a  native  grape-vine  close 
by,  blue  with  its  less  refined  abundance,  but  my  cun 
ning  thieves  preferred  the  foreign  flavor.  Could  I 
tax  them  with  want  of  taste  ? 

The  robins  are  not  good  solo  singers,  but  their 
chorus,  as,  like  primitive  fire-worshippers,  they  hail 
the  return  of  light  and  warmth  to  the  world,  is  unri 
valled.  There  are  a  hundred  singing  like  one.  They 
are  noisy  enough  then,  and  sing,  as  poets  should,  with 
no  afterthought.  But  when  they  come  after  cherries 
to  the  tree  near  my  window,  they  muffle  their  voices, 
and  their  faint  pip  pip  pop  !  sounds  far  away  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden,  where  they  know  I  shall  not 
suspect  them  of  robbing  the  great  black-walnut  of  its 
bitter-rinded  store.1  They  are  feathered  Pecksniffs, 
to  be  sure,  but  then  how  brightly  their  breasts,  that 
look  rather  shabby  in  the  sunlight,  shine  in  a  rainy  day 

1  The  screech-owl,  whose  cry,  despite  his  ill  name,  is  one  of 
the  sweetest  sounds  in  nature,  softens  his  voice  in  the  same  way 
with  the  most  beguiling  mockery  of  distance.  J.  R.  L. 


240  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

against  the  dark  green  of  the  fringe-tree  !  After  they 
have  pinched  and  shaken  all  the  life  of  an  earthworm, 
as  Italian  cooks  pound  all  the  spirit  out  of  a  steak, 
and  then  gulped  him,  they  stand  up  in  honest  self- 
confidence,  expand  their  red  waistcoats  with  the  virtu 
ous  air  of  a  lobby  member,  and  outface  you  with  an 
eye  that  calmly  challenges  inquiry.  "  Do  I  look  like 
a  bird  that  knows  the  flavor  of  raw  vermin  ?  I  throw 
myself  upon  a  jury  of  my  peers.  Ask  any  robin  if  he 
<jver  ate  anything  less  ascetic  than  the  frugal  berry  of 
the  juniper,  and  he  will  answer  that  his  vow  forbids 
him."  Can  such  an  open  bosom  cover  such  deprav 
ity  ?  Alas,  yes  !  I  have  no  doubt  his  breast  was  red 
der  at  that  very  moment  with  the  blood  of  my  rasp 
berries.  On  the  whole,  he  is  a  doubtful  friend  in  the 
the  garden.  He  makes  his  dessert  of  all  kinds  of  ber 
ries,  and  is  not  averse  from  early  pears.  But  when 
we  remember  how  omnivorous  he  is,  eating  his  own 
weight  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  and  that  Nature 
seems  exhaustless  in  her  invention  of  new  insects  hos 
tile  to  vegetation,  perhaps  we  may  reckon  that  he  does 
more  good  than  harm.  For  my  own  part,  I  would 
rather  have  his  cheerfulness  and  kind  neighborhood 
than  many  berries. 

For  his  cousin,  the  catbird,  I  have  a  still  warmer 
regard.  Always  a  good  singer,  he  sometimes  nearly 
equals  the  brown  thrush,  and  has  the  merit  of  keeping 
up  his  music  later  in  the  evening  than  any  bird  of  my 
familiar  acquaintance.  Ever  since  I  can  remember,  a 
pair  of  them  have  built  in  a  gigantic  syringa  near  our 
front  door,  and  I  have  known  the  male  to  sing  almost 
uninterruptedly  during  the  evenings  of  early  summer 
till  twilight  duskened  into  dark.  They  differ  greatly 
in  vocal  talent,  but  all  have  a  delightful  way  of  croon« 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  241 

ing  over,  and,  as  it  were,  rehearsing  their  song  in  an 
undertone,  which  makes  their  nearness  always  unob 
trusive.  Though  there  is  the  most  trustworthy  wit 
ness  to  the  imitative  propensity  of  this  bird,  I  have 
only  once,  during  an  intimacy  of  more  than  forty 
years,  heard  him  indulge  it.  In  that  case,  the  imita 
tion  was  by  no  means  so  close  as  to  deceive,  but  a  free 
reproduction  of  the  notes  of  some  other  birds,  espe 
cially  of  the  oriole,  as  a  kind  of  variation  in  his  own 
song.  The  catbird  is  as  shy  as  the  robin  is  vulgarly 
familiar.  Only  when  his  nest  or  his  fledglings  are 
approached  does  he  become  noisy  and  almost  aggres 
sive.  I  have  known  him  to  station  his  young  in  a 
thick  cornel-bush  on  the  edge  of  the  raspberry-bed, 
after  the  fruit  began  to  ripen,  and  feed  them  there  for 
a  week  or  more.  In  such  cases  he  shows  none  of  that 
conscious  guilt  which  makes  the  robin  contemptible. 
On  the  contrary,  he  will  maintain  his  post  in  the 
thicket,  and  sharply  scold  the  intruder  who  ventures 
to  steal  his  berries.  After  all,  his  claim  is  only  for 
tithes,  while  the  robin  will  bag  your  entire  crop  if  he 
get  a  chance. 

Dr.  Watts's  statement  that  "birds  in  their  little 
nests  agree,"  like  too  many  others  intended  to  form 
the  infant  mind,  is  very  far  from  being  true.  On  the 
contrary,  the  most  peaceful  relation  of  the  different 
species  to  each  other  is  that  of  armed  neutrality. 
They  are  very  jealous  of  neighbors.  A  few  years  ago 
I  was  much  interested  in  the  housebuilding  of  a  pair 
of  summer  yellow-birds.  They  had  chosen  a  very 
pretty  site  near  the  top  of  a  tall  white  lilac,  within 
easy  eye-shot  of  a  chamber  window.  A  very  pleasant 
thing  it  was  to  see  their  little  home  growing  with  mu 
tual  help,  to  watch  their  industrious  skill  interrupted 


242  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

only  by  little  flirts  and  snatches  of  endearment,  fru 
gally  cut  short  by  the  common-sense  of  the  tiny  house 
wife.  They  had  brought  their  work  nearly  to  an  end, 
and  had  already  begun  to  line  it  with  fern-down,  the 
gathering  of  which  demanded  more  distant  journeys 
and  longer  absences.  But,  alas  !  the  syringa,  imme= 
morial  manor  of  the  catbirds,  was  not  more  than 
twenty  feet  away,  and  these  "giddy  neighbors  "  had, 
as  it  appeared,  been  all  along  jealously  watchful, 
though  silent,  witnesses  of  what  they  deemed  an  intru 
sion  of  squatters.  No  sooner  were  the  pretty  mates 
fairly  gone  for  a  new  load  of  lining,  than  • 

"  To  their  unguarded  nest  these  weasel  Scots 
Came  stealing."  1 

Silently  they  flew  back  and  forth,  each  giving  a  venge 
ful  dab  at  the  nest  in  passing.  They  did  not  fall-to 
and  deliberately  destroy  it,  for  they  might  have  been 
caught  at  their  mischief.  As  it  was,  whenever  the 
yellow-birds  came  back,  their  enemies  were  hidden  in 
their  own  sight-proof  bush.  Several  times  their  un 
conscious  victims  repaired  damages,  but  at  length, 
after  counsel  taken  together,  they  gave  it  up.  Per 
haps,  like  other  unlettered  folk,  they  came  to  the  con 
clusion  that  the  Devil  was  in  it,  and  yielded  to  the 
invisible  persecution  of  witchcraft. 

The  robins,  by  constant  attacks  and  annoyances, 
have  succeeded  in  driving  off  the  blue-jays  who  used 
to  build  in  our  pines,  their  gay  colors  and  quaint, 
noisy  ways  making  them  welcome  and  amusing  neigh 
bors.  I  once  had  the  chance  of  doing  a  kindness  to 
a  household  of  them,  which  they  received  with  very 
friendly  condescension.  I  had  had  my  eye  for  some 
1  Shakespeare  :  King  Henry  V.,  act  i.  scene  2. 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  243 

time  upon  a  nest,  and  was  puzzled  by  a  constant  flut 
tering  of  what  seemed  full-grown  wings  in  it  whenever 
I  drew  nigh.  At  last  I  climbed  the  tree,  in  spite  of 
angry  protests  from  the  old  birds  against  my  intru 
sion.  The  mystery  had  a  very  simple  solution.  In 
building  the  nest,  a  long  piece  of  packthread  had  been 
somewhat  loosely  woven  in.  Three  of  the  young  had 
contrived  to  entangle  themselves  in  it,  and  had  become 
full-grown  without  being  able  to  launch  themselves 
upon  the  air.  One  was  unharmed  ;  another  had  so 
tightly  twisted  the  cord  about  its  shank  that  one  foot 
was  curled  up  and  seemed  paralyzed  ;  the  third,  in 
its  struggles  to  escape,  had  sawn  through  the  flesh  of 
the  thigh  and  so  much  harmed  itself  that  I  thought  it 
humane  to  put  an  end  to  its  misery.  When  I  took 
out  my  knife  to  cut  their  hempen  bonds,  the  heads  of 
the  family  seemed  to  divine  my  friendly  intent.  Sud 
denly  ceasing  their  cries  and  threats,  they  perched 
quietly  within  reach  of  my  hand,  and  watched  me  in 
my  work  of  manumission.  This,  owing  to  the  flutter 
ing  terror  of  the  prisoners,  was  an  affair  of  some  deli 
cacy  ;  but  ere  long  I  was  rewarded  by  seeing  one  of 
them  fly  away  to  a  neighboring  tree,  while  the  cripple, 
making  a  parachute  of  his  wings,  came  lightly  to  the 
ground,  and  hopped  off  as  well  as  he  could  with  one 
leg,  obsequiously  waited  on  by  his  elders.  A  week 
later  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  meeting  him  in  the 
pine-walk,  in  good  spirits,  and  already  so  far  recov 
ered  as  to  be  able  to  balance  himself  with  the  lame 
foot.  I  have  no  doubt  that  in  his  old  age  he  ac 
counted  for  his  lameness  by  some  handsome  story  of 
a  wound  received  at  the  famous  Battle  of  the  Pines, 
when  our  tribe,  overcome  by  numbers,  was  driven 
from  its  ancient  camping-ground.  Of  late  years  the 


244  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

jays  have  visited  us  only  at  intervals  ;  and  in  winter 
their  bright  plumage,  set  off  by  the  snow,  and  their 
cheerful  cry,  are  especially  welcome.  They  would 
have  furnished  ^Esop  with  a  fable,  for  the  feathered 
crest  in  which  they  seem  to  take  so  much  satisfaction 
is  often  their  fatal  snare.  Country  boys  make  a  hole 
with  their  finger  in  the  snow-crust  just  large  enough 
to  admit  the  jay's  head,  and,  hollowing  it  out  some 
what  beneath,  bait  it  with  a  few  kernels  of  corn.  The 
crest  slips  easily  into  the  trap,  but  refuses  to  be  pulled 
out  again,  and  he  who  came  to  feast  remains  a  prey. 

Twice  have  the  crow-blackbirds  attempted  a  settle 
ment  in  my  pines,  and  twice  have  the  robins,  who 
claim  a  right  of  preemption,  so  successfully  played 
the  part  of  border-ruffians  as  to  drive  them  away,  — 
to  my  great  regret,  for  they  are  the  best  substitute  we 
have  for  rooks.  At  Shady  Hill 1  (now,  alas !  empty 
of  its  so  long-loved  household)  they  build  by  hundreds, 
and  nothing  can  be  more  cheery  than  their  creaking 
clatter  (like  a  convention  of  old-fashioned  tavern- 
signs)  as  they  gather  at  evening1  to  debate  -in  mass 
meeting  their  windy  politics,  or  to  gossip  at  their  tent- 
doors  over  the  events  of  the  day.  Their  port  is  grave, 
and  their  stalk  across  the  turf  as  martial  as  that  of  a 
second-rate  ghost  in  Hamlet.  They  never  meddled 
with  my  corn,  so  far  as  I  could  discover. 

For  a  few  years  I  had  crows,  but  their  nests  are  an 
irresistible  bait  for  boys,  and  their  settlement  was 
broken  up.  They  grew  so  wonted  as  to  throw  off  a 
great  part  of  their  shyness,  and  to  tolerate  my  near 
approach.  One  very  hot  day  I  stood  for  some  time 
within  twenty  feet  of  a  mother  and  three  children, 

1  The  home  of  the  Nortons,  in  Cambridge,  who  were  at  the 
time  of  this  paper  iu  Europe. 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  245 

who  sat  on  an  elm  bough  over  my  head  gasping  in  the 
sultry  air,  and  holding  their  wings  half-spread  for 
coolness.  All  birds  during  the  pairing  season  become 
more  or  less  sentimental,  and  murmur  soft  nothings 
in  a  tone  very  unlike  the  grind  ing-organ  repetition 
and  loudness  of  their  habitual  song.  The  crow  is  very 
comical  as  a  lover,  and  to  hear  him  trying  to  soften 
his  croak  to  the  proper  Saint  Preux 1  standard  has 
something  the  effect  of  a  Mississippi  boatman  quoting 
Tennyson.  Yet  there  are  few  things  to  my  ear  more 
melodious  than  his  caw  of  a  clear  winter  morning  as 
it  drops  to  you  filtered  through  five  hundred  fathoms 
of  crisp  blue  air.  The  hostility  of  all  smaller  birds 
makes  the  moral  character  of  the  crow,  for  all  his 
deaconlike  demeanor  and  garb,  somewhat  questiona 
ble.  He  could  never  sally  forth  without  insult.  The 
golden  robins,  especially,  would  chase  him  as  far  as  I 
could  follow  with  my  eye,  making  him  duck  clumsily 
to  avoid  their  importunate  bills.  I  do  not  believe, 
however,  that  he  robbed  any  nests  hereabouts,  for  the 
refuse  of  the  gas-works,  which,  in  our  free-and-easy 
community,  is  allowed  to  poison  the  river,  supplied 
him  with  dead  alewives  in  abundance.  I  used  to 
watch  him  making  his  periodical  visits  to  the  salt- 
marshes  and  coming  back  with  a  fish  in  his  beak  to 
his  young  savages,  who,  no  doubt,  like  it  in  that  con 
dition  which  makes  it  savory  to  the  Kanakas  and 
other  corvine  races  of  men. 

Orioles  are  in  great  plenty  with  me.  I  have  seen 
seven  males  flashing  about  the  garden  at  once.  A 
merry  crew  of  them  swing  their  hammocks  from  the 
pendulous  boughs.  During  one  of  these  later  years, 
when  the  canker-worms  stripped  our  elms  as  bare  as 
1  See  Rousseau's  La  Nouivelle  Heloise. 


246  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

winter,  these  birds  went  to  the  trouble  of  rebuilding 
their  unroofed  nests,  and  chose  for  the  purpose  trees 
which  are  safe  from  those  swarming  vandals,  such  as 
the  ash  and  the  button-wood.  One  year  a  pair  (dis 
turbed,  I  suppose,  elsewhere)  built  a  second  nest  in 
an  elm  within  a  few  yards  of  the  house.  My  friend, 
Edward  E.  Hale,  told  me  once  that  the  oriole  rejected 
from  his  web  all  strands  of  brilliant  color,  and  I 
thought  it  a  striking  example  of  that  instinct  of  con 
cealment  noticeable  in  many  birds,  though  it  should 
seem  in  this  instance  that  the  nest  was  amply  pro 
tected  by  its  position  from  all  marauders  but  owls 
and  squirrels.  Last  year,  however,  I  had  the  fullest 
proof  that  Mr.  Hale  was  mistaken.  A  pair  of  orioles 
built  on  the  lowest  trailer  of  a  weeping  elm,  which 
hung  within  ten  feet  of  our  drawing-room  window, 
and  so  low  that  I  could  reach  it  from  the  ground. 
The  nest  was  wholly  woven  and  felted  with  ravellings 
of  woollen  carpet  in  which  scarlet  predominated. 
Would  the  same  thing  have  happened  in  the  woods  ? 
Or  did  the  nearness  of  a  human  dwelling  perhaps 
give  the  birds  a  greater  feeling  of  security?  They 
are  very  bold,  by  the  way,  in  quest  of  cordage,  and  I 
have  often  watched  them  stripping  the  fibrous  bark 
from  a  honeysuckle  growing  over  the  very  door.  But, 
indeed,  all  my  birds  look  upon  me  as  if  I  were  a  mere 
tenant  at  will,  and  they  were  landlords.  With  shame 
I  confess  it,  I  have  been  bullied  even  by  a  humming 
bird.  This  spring,  as  I  was  cleansing  a  pear-tree  of 
its  lichens,  one  of  these  little  zigzagging  blurs  came 
purring  toward  me,  couching  his  long  bill  like  a 
lance,  his  throat  sparkling  with  angry  fire,  to  warn 
me  off  from  a  Missouri-currant  whose  honey  he  was 
sipping.  And  many  a  time  he  has  driven  me  out  of 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  247 

a  flower-bed.  This  summer,  by  the  way,  a  pair  of 
these  winged  emeralds  fastened  their  mossy  acorn-cup 
upon  a  bough  of  the  same  elm  which  the  orioles  had 
enlivened  the  year  before.  We  watched  all  their  pro 
ceedings  from  the  window  through  an  opera-glass,  and 
saw  their  two  nestlings  grow  from  black  needles  with 
a  tuft  of  down  at  the  lower  end,  till  they  whirled  away 
on  their  first  short  experimental  flights.  They  be 
came  strong  of  wing  in  a  surprisingly  short  time,  and 
I  never  saw  them  or  the  male  bird  after,  though  the 
female  was  regular  as  usual  in  her  visits  to  our  petu 
nias  and  verbenas.  I  do  not  think  it  ground  enough 
for  a  generalization,  but  in  the  many  times  when  I 
watched  the  old  birds  feeding  their  young,  the  mother 
always  alighted,  while  the  father  as  uniformly  re 
mained  upon  the  wing. 

The  bobolinks  are  generally  chance  visitors,  tin 
kling  through  the  garden  in  blossoming-time,  but  this 
year,  owing  to  the  long  rains  early  in  the  season,  their 
favorite  meadows  were  flooded,  and  they  were  driven 
to  the  upland.  So  I  had  a  pair  of  them  domiciled  in 
my  grass  field.  The  male  used  to  perch  in  an  apple- 
tree,  then  in  full  bloom,  and,  while  I  stood  perfectly 
still  close  by,  he  would  circle  away,  quivering  round 
the  entire  field  of  five  acres,  with  no  break  in  his  song, 
and  settle  down  again  among  the  blossoms,  to  be  hur 
ried  away  almost  immediately  by  a  new  rapture  of 
music.  He  had  the  volubility  of  an  Italian  charlatan 
at  a  fair,  and,  like  him,  appeared  to  be  proclaiming 
the  merits  of  some  quack  remedy.  Opodeldoc-opo- 
deldoc-try-Doctor-Lincoln's-opodeldoc  !  he  seemed  to 
repeat  over  and  over  again,  with  a  rapidity  that  would 
have  distanced  the  deftest-tongued  Figaro  that  ever 
rattled.  I  remember  Count  Gurowski  saying  once, 


248  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

with  that  easy  superiority  of  knowledge  about  this 
country  which  is  the  monopoly  of  foreigners,  that  we 
had  no  singing-birds !  Well,  well,  Mr.  Hepworth 
Dixon  1  has  found  the  typical  America  in  Oneida  and 
Salt  Lake  City.  Of  course,  an  intelligent  European 
is  the  best  judge  of  these  matters.  The  truth  is  there 
are  more  singing-birds  in  Europe  because  there  are 
fewer  forests.  These  songsters  love  the  neighborhood 
of  man  because  hawks  and  owls  are  rarer,  while  their 
own  food  is  more  abundant.  Most  people  seem  to 
think,  the  more  trees,  the  more  birds.  Even  Cha 
teaubriand,  who  first  tried  the  primitive-forest-cure, 
and  whose  description  of  the  wilderness  in  its  imagi 
native  effects  is  unmatched,  fancies  the  "people  of 
the  air  singing  their  hymns  to  him."  So  far  as  my 
own  observation  goes,  the  farther  one  penetrates  the 
sombre  solitudes  of  the  woods,  the  more  seldom  does 
he  hear  the  voice  of  any  singing-bird.  In  spite  of 
Chateaubriand's  minuteness  of  detail,  in  spite  of  that 
marvellous  reverberation  of  the  decrepit  tree  falling 
of  its  own  weight,  which  he  was  the  first  to  notice,  I 
cannot  help  doubting  whether  he  made  his  way  very 
deep  into  the  wilderness.  At  any  rate,  in  a  letter  to 
Fontanes,  written  in  1804,  he  speaks  of  mes  chevaux 
paissant  a  quelque  distance.  To  be  sure  Chateau 
briand  was  apt  to  mount  the  high  horse,  and  this  may 
have  been  but  an  afterthought  of  the  grand  seiyneur, 
but  certainly  one  would  not  make  much  headway  on 
horseback  toward  the  druid  fastnesses  of  the  primaeval 
pine. 

The  bobolinks  build  in  considerable  numbers  in  a 
meadow  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  us.    A  houseless 
lane  passes  through  the  midst  of  their  camp,  and  in 
1  In  his  book  of  travels,  New  America. 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  249 

clear  westerly  weather,  at  the  right  season,  one  may 
hear  a  score  of  them  singing  at  once.  When  they  are 
breeding,  if  I  chance  to  pass,  one  of  the  male  birds 
always  accompanies  me  like  a  constable,  flitting  from 
post  to  post  of  the  rail-fence,  with  a  short  note  of  re 
proof  continually  repeated,  till  I  am  fairly  out  of  the 
neighborhood.  Then  he  will  swing  away  into  the  air 
and  run  down  the  wind,  gurgling  music  without  stint 
over  the  unheeding  tussocks  of  meadow-grass  and  dark 
clumps  of  bulrushes  that  mark  his  domain. 

We  have  no  bird  whose  song  will  match  the  night 
ingale's  in  compass,  none  whose  note  is  so  rich  as  that 
of  the  European  blackbird  ;  but  for  mere  rapture  I 
have  never  heard  the  bobolink's  rival.  But  his  opera- 
season  is  a  short  one.  The  ground  and  tree  sparrows 
are  our  most  constant  performers.  It  is  now  late  in 
August,  and  one  of  the  latter  sings  every  day  and  all 
day  long  in  the  garden.  Till  within  a  fortnight,  a  pair 
of  indigo-birds  would  keep  up  their  lively  duo  for  an 
hour  together.  While  I  write,  I  hear  an  oriole  gay  as 
in  June,  and  the  plaintive  may-be  of  the  goldfinch 
tells  me  he  is  stealing  my  lettuce-seeds.  I  know  not 
what  the  experience  of  others  may  have  been,  but  the 
only  bird  I  have  ever  heard  sing  in  the  night  has  been 
the  chip-bird.  I  should  say  he  sang  about  as  often 
during  the  darkness  as  cocks  crow.  One  can  hardly 
help  fancying  that  he  sings  in  his  dreams. 

"  Father  of  light,  what  sunnie  seed, 
What  glance  of  day  hast  thou  confined 
Into  this  bird  ?     To  all  the  breed 
This  busie  ray  thou  hast  assigned  ; 
Their  magnetism  works  all  night, 
And  dreams  of  Paradise  and  light." 

On  second  thought,  I  remember  to  have  heard  the 


250  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

cuckoo  strike  the  hours  nearly  all  night  with  the  reg 
ularity  of  a  Swiss  clock. 

The  dead  limbs  of  our  elms,  which  I  spare  to  that 
end,  bring  us  the  flicker  every  summer,  and  almost 
daily  I  hear  his  wild  scream  and  laugh  close  at  hand, 
himself  invisible.  He  is  a  shy  bird,  but  a  few  days 
ago  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  studying  him  through 
the  blinds  as  he  sat  on  a  tree  within  a  few  feet  of  me. 
Seen  so  near  and  at  rest,  he  makes  good  his  claim  to 
the  title  of  pigeon-woodpecker.  Lumberers  have  a 
notion  that  he  is  harmful  to  timber,  digging  little  holes 
through  the  bark  to  encourage  the  settlement  of  in 
sects.  The  regular  rings  of  such  perforations  which 
one  may  see  in  almost  any  apple-orchard  seem  to  give 
some  probability  to  this  theory.  Almost  every  season 
a  solitary  quail  visits  us,  and,  unseen  among  the  cur 
rant  bushes,  calls  Bob  White,  Bob  White,  as  if  he 
were  playing  at  hide-and-seek  with  that  imaginary 
being.  A  rarer  visitant  is  the  turtle-dove,  whose  plea 
sant  coo  (something  like  the  muffled  crow  of  a  cock 
from  a  coop  covered  with  snow)  I  have  sometimes 
heard,  and  whom  I  once  had  the  good  luck  to  see  close 
by  me  in  the  mulberry-tree.  The  wild-pigeon,  once 
numerous,  I  have  not  seen  for  many  years.1  Of  sav 
age  birds,  a  hen-hawk  now  and  then  quarters  himself 
upon  us  for  a  few  days,  sitting  sluggish  in  a  tree  after 
a  surfeit  of  poultry.  One  of  them  once  offered  me  a 
near  shot  from  my  study-window  one  drizzly  day  for 
several  hours.  But  it  was  Sunday,  and  1  gave  him 
the  benefit  of  its  gracious  truce  of  God. 

Certain  birds  have  disappeared  from  our  neighbor 
hood  within  my  memory.  I  remember  when  the 

1  They  made  their  appearance  again  this  summer  (1870).— 
J.  R.  L. 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  251 

whippoorwill  could  be  heard  in  Sweet  Auburn.  The 
night-hawk,  once  common,  is  now  rare.  The  brown 
thrush  has  moved  farther  up  country.  For  years  I 
have  not  seen  or  heard  any  of  the  larger  owls,  whose 
hooting  was  one  of  my  boyish  terrors.  The  cliff- 
swallow,  strange  emigrant,  that  eastward  takes  his 
way,  has  come  and  gone  again  in  my  time.  The  bank- 
swallows,  wellnigh  innumerable  during  my  boyhood, 
no  longer  frequent  the  crumbly  cliff  of  the  gravel-pit 
by  the  river.  The  barn-swallows,  which  once  swarmed 
in  our  barn,  flashing  through  the  dusty  sun-streaks  of 
the  mow,  have  been  gone  these  many  years.  My 
father  would  lead  me  out  to  see  them  gather  on  the 
roof,  and  take  counsel  before  their  yearly  migration, 
as  Mr.  White  used  to  see  them  at  Selborne.  Eheu 
fugaces!  Thank  fortune,  the  swift  still  glues  his 
nest,  and  rolls  his  distant  thunders  night  and  day  in 
the  wide-throated  chimneys,  still  sprinkles  the  evening 
air  with  his  merry  twittering.  The  populous  heronry 
in  Fresh  Pond  meadows  has  wellnigh  broken  up,  but 
still  a  pair  or  two  haunt  the  old  home,  as  the  gypsies 
of  Ellangowan  their  ruined  huts,  and  every  evening 
fly  over  us  riverwards,  clearing  their  throats  with  a 
hoarse  hawk  as  they  go,  and,  in  cloudy  weather,  scarce 
higher  than  the  tops  of  the  chimneys.  Sometimes  I 
have  known  one  to  alight  in  one  of  our  trees,  though 
for  what  purpose  I  never  could  divine.  Kingfishers 
have  sometimes  puzzled  me  in  the  same  way,  perched 
at  high  noon  in  a  pine,  springing  their  watchman's 
rattle  when  they  flitted  away  from  my  curiosity,  and 
seeming  to  shove  their  top-heavy  heads  along  as  a  man 
does  a  wheelbarrow. 

Some  birds  have  left  us,  I    suppose,  because   the 
country  is  growing  less  wild.     I  once  found  a  summer 


252  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

duck's  nest  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  our  house, 
but  such  a  trouvaille  would  be  impossible  now  as 
Kidd's  treasure.  And  yet  the  mere  taming  of  the 
neighborhood  does  not  quite  satisfy  me  as  an  explana 
tion.  Twenty  years  ago,  on  my  way  to  bathe  in  the 
river,  I  saw  every  day  a  brace  of  woodcock,  on  the 
miry  edge  of  a  spring  within  a  few  rods  of  a  house, 
and  constantly  visited  by  thirsty  cows.  There  was  no 
growth  of  any  kind  to  conceal  them,  and  yet  these 
ordinarily  shy  birds  were  almost  as  indifferent  to  my 
passing  as  common  poultry  would  have  been.  Since 
bird-nesting  has  become  scientific,  and  dignified  itself 
as  oology,  that,  no  doubt,  is  partly  to  blame  for  some 
of  our  losses.  But  some  old  friends  are  constant. 
Wilson's  thrush  comes  every  year  to  remind  me  of 
that  most  poetic  of  ornithologists.  He  flits  before  me 
through  the  pine-walk  like  the  very  genius  of  solitude. 
A  pair  of  pewees  have  built  immemorially  on  a  jutting 
brick  in  the  arched  entrance  to  the  ice-house ;  always 
on  the  same  brick,  and  never  more  than  a  single  pair, 
though  two  broods  of  five  each  are  raised  there  every 
summer.  How  do  they  settle  their  claim  to  the  home 
stead  ?  By  what  right  of  primogeniture  ?  Once  the 
children  of  a  man  employed  about  the  place  oologized 
the  nest,  and  the  pewees  left  us  for  a  year  or  two.  I 
felt  towards  those  boys  as  the  messmates  of  the  An 
cient  Mariner  J  did  towards  him  after  he  had  shot  the 
albatross.  But  the  pewees  came  back  at  last,  and 
one  of  them  is  now  on  his  wonted  perch,  so  near  my 
window  that  I  can  hear  the  click  of  his  bill  as  he 
snaps  a  fly  on  the  wing  with  the  unerring  precision  a 
stately  Trasteverina  shows  in  the  capture  of  her 
smaller  deer.  The  pewee  is  the  first  bird  to  pipe  up 
1  In  Coleridge's  poem  of  that  name. 


MY  GARDEN  ACQUAINTANCE.  253 

in  the  morning  ;  and  during  the  early  summer  he 
preludes  his  matutinal  ejaculation  of  pewee  with  a 
slender  whistle,  unheard  at  any  other  time.  He  sad 
dens  with  the  season,  and,  as  summer  declines,  he 
changes  his  note  to  eheu,  pewee  !  as  if  in  lamentation. 
Had  he  been  an  Italian  bird,  Ovid  would  have  had  a 
plaintive  tale  to  tell  about  him.  He  is  so  familiar  as 
often  to  pursue  a  fly  through  the  open  window  into  my 
library. 

There  is  something  inexpressibly  dear  to  me  in  these 
old  friendships  of  a  lifetime.  There  is  scarce  a  tree 
of  mine  but  has  had,  at  some  time  or  other,  a  happy 
homestead  among  its  boughs,  and  to  which  I  cannot 

say, 

"  Many  light  hearts  and  wings, 
Which  now  be  dead,  lodged  in  thy  living  bowers." 

My  walk  under  the  pines  would  lose  half  its  summer 
charm  were  I  to  miss  that  shy  anchorite,  the  Wilson's 
thrush,  nor  hear  in  haying-time  the  metallic  ring  of 
his  song,  that  justifies  his  rustic  name  of  scythe-whet. 
I  protect  my  game  as  jealously  as  an  English  squire. 
If  anybody  had  oologized  a  certain  cuckoo's  nest  I 
know  of  (I  have  a  pair  in  my  garden  every  year),  it 
would  have  left  me  a  sore  place  in  my  mind  for  weeks. 
I  love  to  bring  these  aborigines  back  to  the  mansue- 
tude  they  showed  to  the  early  voyagers,  and  before 
(forgive  the  involuntary  pun)  they  had  grown  accus 
tomed  to  man  and  knew  his  savage  ways.  And  they 
repay  your  kindness  with  a  sweet  familiarity  too  deli 
cate  ever  to  breed  contempt.  I  have  made  a  Penn- 
treaty  with  them,  preferring  that  to  the  Puritan  way 
with  the  natives,  which  converted  them  to  a  little  He 
braism  and  a  great  deal  of  Medford  rum.  If  they 
will  not  come  near  enough  to  me  (as  most  of  them 


254  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

will),  I  bring  them  close  with  an  opera-glass,  —  a 
much  better  weapon  than  a  gun.  I  would  not,  if  1 
could,  convert  them  from  their  pretty  pagan  ways. 
The  only  one  I  sometimes  hare  savage  doubts  about  is 
the  red  squirrel.  I  think  he  oologizes.  I  know  he 
eats  cherries  (we  counted  five  of  them  at  one  time  in 
a  single  tree,  the  stones  pattering  down  like  the  sparse 
hail  that  preludes  a  storm),  and  that  he  gnaws  oft'  the 
small  end  of  pears  to  get  at  the  seeds.  He  steals  the 
com  from  under  the  noses  of  my  poultry.  But  what 
would  you  have  ?  He  will  come  down  upon  the  limb 
of  the  tree  I  am  lying  under  till  he  is  within  a  yard  of 
me.  He  and  his  mate  will  scurry  up  and .  down  the 
great  black-walnut  for  my  diversion,  chattering  like 
monkeys.  Can  I  sign  his  death-warrant  who  has 
tolerated  me  about  his  grounds  so  long  ?  Not  I.  Let 
them  steal,  and  welcome.  I  am  sure  I  should,  had  I 
had  the  same  bringing  up  and  the  same  temptation. 
As  for  the  birds,  I  do  not  believe  there  is  one  of 
them  but  does  more  good  than  harm;  and  of  how 
many  featherless  bipeds  can  this  be  said  ? 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  255 

II. 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

THERE  have  been  many  painful  crises  since  the  im 
patient  vanity  of  South  Carolina  hurried  ten  prosper 
ous  Commonwealths  into  a  crime  whose  assured  retri 
bution  was  to  leave  them  either  at  the  mercy  of  the 
nation  they  had  wronged,  or  of  the  anarchy  they  had 
summoned  but  could  not  control,  when  no  thoughtful 
American  opened  his  morning  paper  without  dreading 
to  find  that  he  had  no  longer  a  country  to  love  and 
honor.  Whatever  the  result  of  the  convulsion  whose 
first  shocks  were  beginning  to  be  felt,  there  would  still 
be  enough  square  miles  of  earth  for  elbow-room ;  but 
that  ineffable  sentiment  made  up  of  memory  and 
hope,  of  instinct  and  tradition,  which  swells  every 
man's  heart  and  shapes  his  thought,  though  perhaps 
never  present  to  his  consciousness,  would  be  gone 
from  it,  leaving  it  common  earth  and  nothing  more. 
Men  might  gather  rich  crops  from  it,  but  that  ideal 
harvest  of  priceless  associations  would  be  reaped  no 
longer;  that  fine  virtue  which  sent  up  messages  of 
courage  and  security  from  every  sod  of  it  would  have 
evaporated  beyond  recall.  We  should  be  irrevocably 
cut  off  from  our  past,  and  be  forced  to  splice  the 
ragged  ends  of  our  lives  upon  whatever  new  conditions 
chance  might  leave  dangling  for  us. 

We  confess  that  we  had  our  doubts  at  first  whether 
the  patriotism  of  our  people  were  not  too  narrowly 
provincial  to  embrace  the  proportions  of  national  peril. 
We  felt  an  only  too  natural  distrust  of  immense  pub 
lic  meetings  and  enthusiastic  cheers. 

That  a  reaction  should  follow  the  holiday  enthusi 
asm  with  which  the  war  was  entered  on,  that  it  should 


256  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

follow  soon,  and  that  the  slackening  of  public  spirit 
should  be  proportionate  to  the  previous  over-tension, 
might  well  be  foreseen  by  all  who  had  studied  human 
nature  or  history.  Men  acting  gregariously  are  al 
ways  in  extremes  ;  as  they  are  one  moment  capable  of 
higher  courage,  so  they  are  liable,  the  next,  to  baser 
depression,  and  it  is  often  a  matter  of  chance  whether 
numbers  shall  multiply  confidence  or  discouragement. 
Nor  does  deception  lead  more  surely  to  distrust  of 
men,  than  self-deception  to  suspicion  of  principles. 
The  only  faith  that  wears  well  and  holds  its  color  in 
all  weathers  is  that  which  is  woven  of  conviction  and 
set  with  the  sharp  mordant  of  experience.  Enthusi 
asm  is  good  material  for  the  orator,  but  the  statesman 
needs  something  more  durable  to  work  in,  —  must  be 
able  to  rely  on  the  deliberate  reason  and  consequent 
firmness  of  the  people,  without  which  that  presence  of 
mind,  no  less  essential  in  times  of  moral  than  of  ma 
terial  peril,  will  be  wanting  at  the  critical  moment. 
Would  this  fervor  of  the  Free  States  hold  out  ?  Was 
it  kindled  by  a  just  feeling  of  the  value  of  constitu 
tional  liberty  ?  Had  it  body  enough  to  withstand  the 
inevitable  dampening  of  checks,  reverses,  delays  ? 
Had  our  population  intelligence  enough  to  comprehend 
that  the  choice  was  between  order  and  anarchy,  be 
tween  the  equilibrium  of  a  government  by  law  and 
the  tussle  of  misrule  by  pronunciamiento  ?  Could  a 
war  be  maintained  without  the  ordinary  stimulus  of 
hatred  and  plunder,  and  with  the  impersonal  loyalty 
of  principle  ?  These  were  serious  questions,  and  with 
no  precedent  to  aid  in  answering  them. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  war  there  was,  indeed,  oc 
casion  for  the  most  anxious  apprehension.  A  Presi 
dent  known  to  be  infected  with  the  political  heresies, 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  257 

and  suspected  of  sympathy  with  the  treason,  of  the 
Southern  conspirators,  had  just  surrendered  the  reins, 
we  will  not  say  of  power,  but  of  chaos,  to  a  successor 
known  only  as  the  representative  of  a  party  whose 
leaders,  with  long  training  in  opposition,  had  none  in 
the  conduct  of  affairs  ;  an  empty  treasury  was  called 
on  to  supply  resources  beyond  precedent  in  the  history 
of  finance ;  the  trees  were  yet  growing  and  the  iron 
un  mined  with  which  a  navy  was  to  be  built  and  ar 
mored  ;  officers  without  discipline  were  to  make  a 
mob  into  an  army;  and,  above  all,  the  public  opinion 
of  Europe,  echoed  and  reinforced  with  every  vague 
hint  and  every  specious  argument  of  despondency  by 
a  powerful  faction  at  home,  was  either  contemptuously 
sceptical  or  actively  hostile.  It  would  be  hard  to 
over-estimate  the  force  of  this  latter  element  of  disin 
tegration  and  discouragement  among  a  people  where 
every  citizen  at  home,  and  every  soldier  in  the  field, 
is  a  reader  of  newspapers.  The  peddlers  of  rumor  in 
the  North  were  the  most  effective  allies  of  the  rebel 
lion.  A  nation  can  be  liable  to  no  more  insidious 
treachery  than  that  of  the  telegraph,  sending  hourly 
its  electric  thrill  of  panic  along  the  remotest  nerves 
of  the  community,  till  the  excited  imagination  makes 
every  real  danger  loom  heightened  with  its  unreal 
double. 

And  even  if  we  look  only  at  more  palpable  difficul 
ties,  the  problem  to  be  solved  by  our  civil  war  was  so 
vast,  both  in  its  immediate  relations  and  its  future 
consequences  ;  the  conditions  of  its  solution  were  so 
intricate  and  so  greatly  dependent  on  incalculable  and 
uncontrollable  contingencies  ;  so  many  of  the  data, 
whether  for  hope  or  fear,  were,  from  their  novelty, 
incapable  of  arrangement  under  any  of  the  categories 


258  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

of  historical  precedent,  that  there  were  moments  of 
crisis  when  the  firmest  believer  in  the  strength  and 
sufficiency  of  the  democratic  theory  of  government 
might  well  hold  his  breath  in  vague  apprehension  of 
disaster.  Our  teachers  of  political  philosophy,  sol 
emnly  arguing  from  the  precedent  of  some  petty  Gre 
cian,  Italian,  or  Flemish  city,  whose  long  periods  of 
aristocracy  were  broken  now  and  then  by  awkward 
parentheses  of  mob,  had  always  taught  us  that  demo 
cracies  were  incapable  of  the  sentiment  of  loyalty,  of 
concentrated  and  prolonged  effort,  of  far-reaching 
conceptions ;  were  absorbed  in  material  interests  ;  im 
patient  of  regular,  and  much  more  of  exceptional  re 
straint  ;  had  no  natural  nucleus  of  gravitation,  nor  any 
forces  but  centrifugal ;  were  always  on  the  verge  of 
civil  war,  and  slunk  at  last  into  the  natural  almshouse 
of  bankrupt  popular  government,  a  military  despotism. 
Here  was  indeed  a  dreary  outlook  for  persons  who 
knew  democracy,  not  by  rubbing  shoulders  with  it 
lifelong,  but  merely  from  books,  and  America  only 
by  the  report  of  some  fellow-Briton,  who,  having 
eaten  a  bad  dinner  or  lost  a  carpet-bag  here,  had 
written  to  The  Times  demanding  redress,  and  draw 
ing  a  mournful  inference  of  democratic  instability. 
Nor  were  men  wanting  among  ourselves  who  had  so 
steeped  their  brains  in  London  literature  as  to  mis 
take  Cockneyism  for  European  culture,  and  contempt 
of  their  country  for  cosmopolitan  breadth  of  view, 
and  who,  owing  all  they  had  and  all  they  were  to 
democracy,  thought  it  had  an  air  of  high-breeding  to 
join  in  the  shallow  epicedium  that  our  bubble  had 
burst. 

But  beside  any  disheartening  influences  which  might 
affect  the  timid  or  the  despondent,  there  were  reasons 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  259 

enough  of  settled  gravity  against  any  over-confidence 
of  hope.  A  war  —  which,  whether  we  consider  the 
expanse  of  the  territory  at  stake,  the  hosts  brought 
into  the  field,  or  the  reach  of  the  principles  involved, 
may  fairly  be  reckoned  the  most  momentous  of  mod 
ern  times  —  was  to  be  waged  by  a  people  divided  at 
home,  unnerved  by  fifty  years  of  peace,  under  a  chief 
magistrate  without  experience  and  without  reputation, 
whose  every  measure  was  sure  to  be  cunningly  ham 
pered  by  a  jealous  and  unscrupulous  minority,  and 
who,  while  dealing  with  unheard-of  complications  at 
home,  must  soothe  a  hostile  neutrality  abroad,  waiting 
only  a  pretext  to  become  war.  All  this  was  to  be 
done  without  warning  and  without  preparation,  while 
at  the  same  time  a  social  revolution  was  to  be  accom 
plished  in  the  political  condition  of  four  millions  of 
people,  by  softening  the  prejudices,  allaying  the  fears, 
and  gradually  obtaining  the  cooperation,  of  their  un 
willing  liberators.  Surely,  if  ever  there  were  an 
occasion  when  the  heightened  imagination  of  the  his 
torian  might  see  Destiny  visibly  intervening  in  human 
affairs,  here  was  a  knot  worthy  of  her  shears.  Never, 
perhaps,  was  any  system  of  government  tried  by  so 
continuous  and  searching-  a  strain  as  ours  during  the 
last  three  yeai-s  ;  never  has  any  shown  itself  stronger  ; 
and  never  could  that  strength  be  so  directly  traced  to 
the  virtue  and  intelligence  of  the  people,  —  to  that 
general  enlightenment  and  prompt  efficiency  of  public 
opinion  possible  only  under  the  influence  of  a  political 
framework  like  our  own.  We  find  it  hard  to  under 
stand  how  even  a  foreigner  should  be  blind  to  the 
grandeur  of  the  combat  of  ideas  that  has  been  going 
on  here,  —  to  the  heroic  energy,  persistency,  and  self- 
reliance  of  a  nation  proving  that  it  knows  how  much 


260  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

dearer  greatness  is  than  mere  power  ;  and  we  own  that 
it  is  impossible  for  us  to  conceive  the  mental  and 
moral  condition  of  the  American  who  does  not  feel 
his  spirit  braced  and  heightened  by  being  even  a 
spectator  of  such  qualities  and  achievements.  That  a 
steady  purpose  and  a  definite  aim  have  been  given  to 
the  jarring  forces  which,  at  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
spent  themselves  in  the  discussion  of  schemes  which 
could  only  become  operative,  if  at  all,  after  the  war 
was  over ;  that  a  popular  excitement  has  been  slowly 
intensified  into  an  earnest  national  will ;  that  a  some 
what  impracticable  moral  sentiment  has  been  made 
the  unconscious  instrument  of  a  practical  moral  end  ; 
that  the  treason  of  covert  enemies,  the  jealousy  of 
rivals,  the  unwise  zeal  of  friends,  have  been  made  not 
only  useless  for  mischief,  but  even  useful  for  good  ; 
that  the  conscientious  sensitiveness  of  England  to  the 
horrors  of  civil  conflict  has  been  prevented  from  com 
plicating  a  domestic  with  a  foreign  war ;  —  all  these 
results,  any  one  of  which  might  suffice  to  prove  great 
ness  in  a  ruler,  have  been  mainly  due  to  the  good 
sense,  the  good-humor,  the  sagacity,  the  large-minded- 
ness,  and  the  unselfish  honesty  of  the  unknown  man 
whom  a  blind  fortune,  as  it  seemed,  had  lifted  from 
the  crowd  to  the  most  dangerous  and  difficult  eminence 
of  modern  times.  It  is  by  presence  of  mind  in  un 
tried  emergencies  that  the  native  metal  of  a  man  is 
tested  ;  it  is  by  the  sagacity  to  see,  and  the  fearless 
honesty  to  admit,  whatever  of  truth  there  may  be  in 
an  adverse  opinion,  in  order  more  convincingly  to 
expose  the  fallacy  that  lurks  behind  it,  that  a  reasoner 
at  length  gains  for  his  mere  statement  of  a  fact  the 
force  of  argument ;  it  is  by  a  wise  forecast  which 
allows  hostile  combinations  to  go  so  far  as  by  the  in- 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  261 

evitable  reaction  to  become  elements  of  his  own  power, 
that  a  politician  proves  his  genius  for  state-craft ;  and 
especially  it  is  by  so  gently  guiding  public  sentiment 
that  he  seems  to  follow  it,  by  so  yielding  doubtful 
points  that  he  can  be  firm  without  seeming  obstinate 
in  essential  ones,  and  thus  gain  the  advantages  of  com 
promise  without  the  weakness  of  concession  ;  by  so  in 
stinctively  comprehending  the  temper  and  prejudices 
of  a  people  as  to  make  them  gradually  conscious  of 
the  superior  wisdom  of  his  freedom  from  temper  and 
prejudice,  —  it  is  by  qualities  such  as  these  that  a 
magistrate  shows  himself  worthy  to  be  chief  in  a 
commonwealth  of  freemen.  And  it  is  for  qualities 
such  as  these  that  we  firmly  believe  History  will  rank 
Mr.  Lincoln  among  the  most  prudent  of  statesmen 
and  the  most  successful  of  rulers.  If  we  wish  to 
appreciate  him,  we  have  only  to  conceive  the  inevita 
ble  chaos  in  which  we  should  now  be  weltering,  had 
a  weak  man  or  an  unwise  one  been  chosen  in  his 
stead. 

"  Bare  is  back,"  says  the  Norse  proverb,  "  without 
brother  behind  it ;  "  and  this  is,  by  analogy,  true  of 
an  elective  magistracy.  The  hereditary  ruler  in  any 
critical  emergency  may  reckon  on  the  inexhaustible 
resources  of  prestige,  of  sentiment,  of  superstition,  of 
dependent  interest,  while  the  new  man  must  slowly 
and  painfully  create  all  these  out  of  the  unwilling 
material  around  him,  by  superiority  of  character,  by 
patient  singleness  of  purpose,  by  sagacious  presenti 
ment  of  popular  tendencies  and  instinctive  sympathy 
with  the  national  character.  Mr.  Lincoln's  task  was 
one  of  peculiar  and  exceptional  difficulty.  Long 
habit  had  accustomed  the  American  people  to  the 
notion  of  a  party  in  power,  and  of  a  President  as  its 


262  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

creature  and  organ,  while  the  more  vital  fact,  that  the 
executive  for  the  time  being  represents  the  abstract 
idea  of  government  as  a  permanent  principle  superior 
to  all  party  and  all  private  interest,  had  gradually 
become  unfamiliar.  They  had  so  long  seen  the  pub 
lic  policy  more  or  less  directed  by  views  of  party,  and 
often  even  of  personal  advantage,  as  to  be  ready  to 
suspect  the  motives  of  a  chief  magistrate  compelled, 
for  the  first  time  in  our  history,  to  feel  himself  the 
head  and  hand  of  a  great  nation,  and  to  act  upon 
the  fundamental  maxim,  laid  down  by  all  publicists, 
that  the  first  duty  of  a  government  is  to  defend  and 
maintain  its  own  existence.  Accordingly,  a  powerful 
weapon  seemed  to  be  put  into  the  hands  of  the  oppo 
sition  by  the  necessity  under  which  the  administration 
found  itself  of  applying  this  old  truth  to  new  rela 
tions.  Nor  were  the  opposition  his  only  nor  his  most 
dangerous  opponents. 

The  Republicans  had  carried  the  country  upon  an 
issue  in  which  ethics  were  more  directly  and  visibly 
mingled  with  politics  than  usual.  Their  leaders  were 
trained  to  a  method  of  oratory  which  relied  for  its  ef 
fect  rather  on  the  moral  sense  than  the  understanding. 
Their  arguments  were  drawn,  not  so  much  from  expe 
rience  as  from  general  principles  of  right  and  wrong. 
When  the  war  came,  their  system  continued  to  be  ap 
plicable  and  effective,  for  here  again  the  reason  of  the 
people  was  to  be  reached  and  kindled  through  their 
sentiments.  It  was  one  of  those  periods  of  excitement, 
gathering,  contagious,  universal,  which,  while  they 
last,  exalt  and  clarify  the  minds  of  men,  giving  to  the 
mere  words  country,  human  rights,  democracy,  a 
meaning  and  a  force  beyond  that  of  sober  and  logical 
argument.  They  were  convictions,  maintained  and 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  263 

defended  by  the  supreme  logic  of  passion.  That  pene 
trating  fire  ran  in  and  roused  those  primary  instincts 
that  make  their  lair  in  the  dens  and  caverns  of  the 
mind.  What  is  called  the  great  popular  heart  was 
awakened,  that  indefinable  something  which  may  be, 
according  to  circumstances,  the  highest  reason  or  the 
most  brutish  unreason.  But  enthusiasm,  once  cold, 
can  never  be  warmed  over  into  anything  better  than 
cant,  —  and  phrases,  when  once  the  inspiration  that 
filled  them  with  beneficent  power  has  ebbed  away, 
retain  only  that  semblance  of  meaning  which  enables 
them  to  supplant  reason  in  hasty  minds.  Among  the 
lessons  taught  by  the  French  Revolution  there  is  none 
sadder  or  more  striking  than  this,  that  you  may  make 
everything  else  out  of  the  passions  of  men  except  a 
political  system  that  will  work,  and  that  there  is  no 
thing  so  pitilessly  and  unconsciously  cruel  as  sincerity 
formulated  into  dogma.  It  is  always  demoralizing  to 
extend  the  domain  of  sentiment  over  questions  where 
it  has  no  legitimate  jurisdiction  ;  and  perhaps  the  se 
verest  strain  upon  Mr.  Lincoln  was  in  resisting  a  ten 
dency  of  his  own  supporters  which  chimed  with  his 
own  private  desires,  while  wholly  opposed  to  his  con 
victions  of  what  would  be  wise  policy. 

The  change  which  three  years  have  brought  about 
is  too  remarkable  to  be  passed  over  without  comment, 
too  weighty  in  its  lesson  not  to  be  laid  to  heart. 
Never  did  a  President  enter  upon  office  with  less 
means  at  his  command,  outside  his  own  strength  of 
heart  and  steadiness  of  understanding,  for  inspiring 
confidence  in  the  people,  and  so  winning  it  for  himself, 
than  Mr.  Lincoln.  All  that  was  known  of  him  was 
that  he  was  a  good  stump-speaker,  nominated  for  his 
availability,  —  that  is,  because  he  had  no  history,  — 


264  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

and  chosen  by  a  party  with  whose  more  extreme  opin 
ions  he  was  not  in  sympathy.  It  might  well  be  feared 
that  a  man  past  fifty,  against  whom  the  ingenuity  of 
hostile  partisans  could  rake  up  no  accusation,  must  be 
lacking  in  manliness  of  character,  in  decision  of  prin 
ciple,  in  strength  of  will ;  that  a  man  who  was  at  best 
only  the  representative  of  a  party,  and  who  yet  did 
not  fairly  represent  even  that,  would  fail  of  political, 
much  more  of  popular,  support.  And  certainly  no 
one  ever  entered  upon  office  with  so  few  resources  of 
power  in  the  past,  and  so  many  materials  of  weakness 
in  the  present,  as  Mr.  Lincoln.  Even  in  that  half  of 
the  Union  which  acknowledged  him  as  President, 
there  was  a  large,  and  at  that  time  dangerous,  minor 
ity,  that  hardly  admitted  his  claim  to  the  office,  and 
even  in  the  party  that  elected  him  there  was  also  a 
large  minority  that  suspected  him  of  being  secretly  a 
communicant  with  the  church  of  Laodicea.1  All  that 
he  did  was  sure  to  be  virulently  attacked  as  ultra  by 
one  side ;  all  that  he  left  undone,  to  be  stigmatized  as 
proof  of  lukewarmness  and  backsliding  by  the  other. 
Meanwhile  he  was  to  carry  on  a  truly  colossal  war  by 
means  of  both ;  he  was  to  disengage  the  country  from 
diplomatic  entanglements  of  unprecedented  peril  un 
disturbed  by  the  help  or  the  hindrance  of  either,  and 
to  win  from  the  crowning  dangers  of  his  administra 
tion,  in  the  confidence  of  the  people,  the  means  of  his 
safety  and  their  own.  He  has  contrived  to  do  it,  and 
perhaps  none  of  our  Presidents  since  Washington  has 
stood  so  firm  in  the  confidence  of  the  people  as  he 
does  after  three  years  of  stormy  administration. 

Mr.   Lincoln's   policy   was    a   tentative   one,   and 
rightly  so.     He  laid  down  no  programme  which  must 
1  See  Revelation,  chapter  3,  verse  15. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  265 

compel  him  to  be  either  inconsistent  or  unwise,  no 
cast-iron  theorem  to  which  circumstances  must  be 
fitted  as  they  rose,  or  else  be  useless  to  his  ends.  He 
seemed  to  have  chosen  Mazarin's  motto,  Le  temps  et 
moi.1  The  moi,  to  be  sure,  was  not  very  prominent 
at  first ;  but  it  has  grown  more  and  more  so,  till  the 
world  is  beginning  to  be  persuaded  that  it  stands  for  a 
character  of  marked  individuality  and  capacity  for  af 
fairs.  Time  was  his  prime-minister,  and,  we  began  to 
think,  at  one  period,  his  general-in-chief  also.  At  first 
he  was  so  slow  that  he  tired  out  all  those  who  see  no 
evidence  of  progress  but  in  blowing  up  the  engine ; 
then  he  was  so  fast,  that  he  took  the  breath  away  from 
those  who  think  there  is  no  getting  on  safely  while 
there  is  a  spark  of  fire  under  the  boilers.  God  is  the 
only  being  who  has  time  enough ;  but  a  prudent  man, 
who  knows  how  to  seize  occasion,  can  commonly  make 
a  shift  to  find  as  much  as  he  needs.  Mr.  Lincoln,  as 
it  seems  to  us  in  reviewing  his  career,  though  we  have 
sometimes  in  our  impatience  thought  otherwise,  has 
always  waited,  as  a  wise  man  should,  till  the  right  mo 
ment  brought  up  all  his  reserves.  /Semper  nocuit  dif- 
ferre  paratis?  is  a  sound  axiom,  but  the  really  effi 
cacious  man  will  also  be  sure  to  know  when  he  is  not 
ready,  and  be  firm  against  all  persuasion  and  reproach 
till  he  is. 

One  would  be  apt  to  think,  from  some  of  the  criti 
cisms  made  on  Mr.  Lincoln's  course  by  those  who 
mainly  agree  with  him  in  principle,  that  the  chief  ob 
ject  of  a  statesman  should  be  rather  to  proclaim  his 
adhesion  to  certain  doctrines,  than  to  achieve  their 

1  Time  and  I.     Cardinal  Mazarin  was  prime-minister  of  Louis 
XIV.  of  France.     Time,  Mazarin  said,  was  his  prime-minister. 
8  It  is  always  bad  for  those  who  are  ready  to  put  off  action. 


266  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

triumph  by  quietly  accomplishing  his  ends.  In  our 
opinion,  there  is  no  more  unsafe  politician  than  a  con 
scientiously  rigid  doctrinaire,  nothing  more  sure  to 
end  in  disaster  than  a  theoretic  scheme  of  policy  that 
admits  of  no  pliability  for  contingencies.  True,  there 
is  a  popular  image  of  an  impossible  He,  in  whose  plas 
tic  hands  the  submissive  destinies  of  mankind  become 
as  wax,  and  to  whose  commanding  necessity  the  tough-* 
est  facts  yield  with  the  graceful  pliancy  of  fiction  ;  but 
in  real  life  we  commonly  find  that  the  men  who  con 
trol  circumstances,  as  it  is  called,  are  those  who  have 
learned  to  allow  for  the  influence  of  their  eddies,  and 
have  the  nerve  to  turn  them  to  account  at  the  happy 
instant.  Mr.  Lincoln's  perilous  task  has  been  to  carry 
a  rather  shaky  raft  through  the  rapids,  making  fast 
the  unrulier  logs  as  he  could  snatch  opportunity,  and 
the  country  is  to  be  congratulated  that  he  did  not 
think  it  his  -duty  to  run  straight  at  all  hazards,  but 
cautiously  to  assure  himself  with  his  setting-pole  where 
the  main  current  was,  and  keep  steadily  to  that.  He 
is  still  in  wild  water,  but  we  have  faith  that  his  skill 
and  sureness  of  eye  will  bring  him  out  right  at  last. 

A  curious,  and,  as  we  think,  not  inapt  parallel, 
might  be  drawn  between  Mr.  Lincoln  and  one  of  the 
most  striking  figures  in  modern  history,  —  Henry  IV. 
of  France.  The  career  of  the  latter  may  be  more  pic 
turesque,  as  that  of  a  daring  captain  always  is ;  but  in 
all  its  vicissitudes  there  is  nothing  more  romantic  than 
that  sudden  change,  as  by  a  rub  of  Aladdin's  lamp, 
from  the  attorney's  office  in  a  country  town  of  Illinois 
to  the  helm  of  a  great  nation  in  times  like  these.  The 
analogy  between  the  characters  and  circumstances  of 
the  two  men  is  in  many  respects  singularly  close. 
Succeeding  to  a  rebellion  rather  than  a  crown,  Henry's 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  267 

chief  material  dependence  was  the  Huguenot  party, 
whose  doctrines  sat  upon  him  with  a  looseness  dis 
tasteful  certainly,  if  not  suspicious,  to  the  more  fanati 
cal  among  them.  King  only  in  name  over  the  greater 
part  of  France,  and  with  his  capital  barred  against 
him,  it  yet  gradually  became  clear  to  the  more  far- 
seeing  even  of  the  Catholic  party  that  he  was  the  only 
centre  of  order  and  legitimate  authority  round  which 
France  could  reorganize  itself.  While  preachers  who 
held  the  divine  right  of  kings  made  the  churches  of 
Paris  ring  with  declamations  in  favor  of  democracy 
rather  than  submit  to  the  heretic  dog  of  a  Bearnois,1 
—  much  as  our  soi-disant  Democrats  have  lately  been 
preaching  the  divine  right  of  slavery,  and  denouncing 
the  heresies  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence, — 
Henry  bore  both  parties  in  hand  till  he  was  convinced 
that  only  one  course  of  action  could  possibly  combine 
his  own  interests  and  those  of  France.  Meanwhile 
the  Protestants  believed  somewhat  doubtfully  that  he 
was  theirs,  the  Catholics  hoped  somewhat  doubtfully 
that  he  would  be  theirs,  and  Henry  himself  turned 
aside  remonstrance,  advice  and  curiosity  alike  with  a 
jest  or  a  proverb  (if  a  little  high,  he  liked  them  none 
the  worse),  joking  continually  as  his  manner  was. 
We  have  seen  Mr.  Lincoln  contemptuously  compared 
to  Sancho  Panza  by  persons  incapable  of  appreciating, 
one  of  the  deepest  pieces  of  wisdom  in  the  profound- 
est  romance  ever  written  ;  namely,  that,  while  Don 
Quixote  was  incomparable  in  theoretic  and  ideal  states 
manship,  Sancho,  with  his  stock  of  proverbs,  the  ready 
money  of  human  experience,  made  the  best  possible 
practical  governor.  Henry  IV.  was  as  full  of  wise  saws 

1  One  of  Henry's  titles  was  Prince  of  Be*arn,  that  being  the 
old  province  of  France  from  which  he  came. 


268  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

and  modern  instances  as  Mr.  Lincoln,  but  beneath  all 
this  was  the  thoughtful,  practical,  humane,  and  thor 
oughly  earnest  man,  around  whom  the  fragments  of 
France  were  to  gather  themselves  till  she  took  her 
place  again  as  a  planet  of  the  first  magnitude  in  the 
European  system.  In  one  respect  Mr.  Lincoln  was 
more  fortunate  than  Henry.  However  some  may  think 
him  wanting  in  zeal,  the  most  fanatical  can  find  no 
taint  of  apostasy  in  any  measure  of  his,  nor  can  the 
most  bitter  charge  him  with  being  influenced  by  mo 
tives  of  personal  interest.  The  leading  distinction  be 
tween  the  policies  of  the  two  is  one  of  circumstances. 
Henry  went  over  to  the  nation  ;  Mr.  Lincoln  has  stead 
ily  drawn  the  nation  over  to  him.  One  left  a  united 
France ;  the  other,  we  hope  and  believe,  will  leave  a 
reunited  America.  We  leave  our  readers  to  trace  the 
further  points  of  difference  and  resemblance  for  them 
selves,  merely  suggesting  a  general  similarity  which 
has  often  occurred  to  us.  One  only  point  of  melan 
choly  interest  we  will  allow  ourselves  to  touch  upon. 
That  Mr.  Lincoln  is  not  handsome  nor  elegant,  we 
learn  from  certain  English  tourists  who  would  consider 
similar  revelations  in  regard  to  Queen  Victoria  as 
thoroughly  American  in  their  want  of  bienseance.  It 
is  no  concern  of  ours,  nor  does  it  affect  his  fitness  for 
the  high  place  he  so  worthily  occupies  ;  but  he  is  cer 
tainly  as  fortunate  as  Henry  in  the  matter  of  good 
looks,  if  we  may  trust  contemporary  evidence.  Mr. 
Lincoln  has  also  been  reproached  with  Americanism 
by  some  not  unfriendly  British  critics  ;  but,  with  all 
deference,  we  cannot  say  that  we  like  him  any  the 
worse  for  it,  or  see  in  it  any  reason  why  he  should 
govern  Americans  the  less  wisely. 

People   of    more   sensitive   organizations    may   be 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  269 

shocked,  but  we  are  glad  that  in  this  our  true  war  of 
independence,  which  is  to  free  us  forever  from  the  Old 
World,  we  have  had  at  the  head  of  our  affairs  a  man 
whom  America  made,  as  God  made  Adam,  out  of  the 
very  earth,  unancestried,  unprivileged,  unknown,  to 
show  us  how  much  truth,  how  much  magnanimity,  and 
how  much  statecraft  await  the  call  of  opportunity  in 
simple  manhood  when  it  believes  in  the  justice  of  God 
and  the  worth  of  man.  Conventionalities  are  all  very 
well  in  their  proper  place,  but  they  shrivel  at  the  touch 
of  nature  like  stubble  in  the  fire.  The  genius  that 
sways  a  nation  by  its  arbitrary  will  seems  less  august 
to  us  than  that  which  multiplies  and  reinforces  itself 
in  the  instincts  and  convictions  of  an  entire  people. 
Autocracy  may  have  something  in  it  more  melodra 
matic  than  this,  but  falls  far  short  of  it  in  human 
value  and  interest. 

Experience  would  have  bred  in  us  a  rooted  distrust 
of  improvised  statesmanship,  even  if  we  did  not  believe 
politics  to  be  a  science,  which,  if  it  cannot  always  com 
mand  men  of  special  aptitude  and  great  powers,  at 
least  demands  the  long  and  steady  application  of  the 
best  powers  of  such  men  as  it  can  command  to  master 
even  its  first  principles.  It  is  curious,  that,  in  a  coun 
try  which  boasts  of  its  intelligence  the  theory  should 
be  so  generally  held  that  the  most  complicated  of 
human  contrivances,  and  one  which  every  day  be 
comes  more  complicated,  can  be  worked  at  sight  by 
any  man  able  to  talk  for  an  hour  or  two  without  stop 
ping  to  think. 

Mr.  Lincoln  is  sometimes  claimed  as  an  example  of 
a  ready-made  ruler.  But  no  case  could  well  be  less  in 
point ;  for,  besides  that  he  was  a  man  of  such  fair- 
mindedness  as  is  always  the  raw  material  of  wisdom, 


270  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

he  had  in  his  profession  a  training  precisely  the  oppo 
site  of  that  to  which  a  partisan  is  subjected.  His  ex 
perience  as  a  lawyer  compelled  him  not  only  to  see 
that  there  is  a  principle  underlying  every  phenomenon 
in  human  affairs,  but  that  there  are  always  two  sides 
to  every  question,  both  of  which  must  be  fully  under 
stood  in  order  to  understand  either,  and  that  it  is  of 
greater  advantage  to  an  advocate  to  appreciate  the 
strength  than  the  weakness  of  his  antagonist's  position. 
Nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  the  unerring  tact  with 
which,  in  his  debate  with  Mr.  Douglas,  he  went  straight 
to  the  reason  of  the  question ;  nor  have  we  ever  had  a 
more  striking  lesson  in  political  tactics  than  the  fact, 
that  opposed  to  a  man  exceptionally  adroit  in  using 
popular  prejudice  and  bigotry  to  his  purpose,  excep 
tionally  unscrupulous  in  appealing  to  those  baser  mo 
tives  that  turn  a  meeting  of  citizens  into  a  mob  of 
barbarians,  he  should  yet  have  won  his  case  before  a 
jury  of  the  people.  Mr.  Lincoln  was  as  far  as  possi 
ble  from  an  impromptu  politician.  His  wisdom  was 
made  up  of  a  knowledge  of  things  as  well  as  of  men ; 
his  sagacity  resulted  from  a  clear  perception  and  hon 
est  acknowledgment  of  difficulties,  which  enabled  him 
to  see  that  the  only  durable  triumph  of  political  opin 
ion  is  based,  not  on  any  abstract  right,  but  upon  so 
much  of  justice,  the  highest  attainable  at  any  given 
moment  in  human  affairs,  as  may  be  had  in  the  bal 
ance  of  mutual  concession.  Doubtless  he  had  an 
ideal,  but  it  was  the  ideal  of  a  practical  statesman,  — 
to  aim*  at  the  best,  and  to  take  the  next  best,  if  he  is 
lucky  enough  to  get  even  that.  His  slow,  but  singu 
larly  masculine,  intelligence  taught  him  that  precedent 
is  only  another  name  for  embodied  experience,  and 
that  it  counts  for  even  more  in  the  guidance  of  com- 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  271 

munities  of  men  than  in  that  of  the  individual  life. 
He  was  not  a  man  who  held  it  good  public  economy  to 
pull  down  on  the  mere  chance  of  rebuilding  better. 
Mr.  Lincoln's  faith  in  God  was  qualified  by  a  very 
well-founded  distrust  of  the  wisdom  of  man.  Perhaps 
it  was  his  want  of  self-confidence  that  more  than  any 
thing  else  won  him  the  unlimited  confidence  of  the 
people,  for  they  felt  that  there  would  be  no  need  of 
retreat  from  any  position  he  had  deliberately  taken. 
The  cautious,  but  steady,  advance  of  his  policy  during 
the  war  was  like  that  of  a  Roman  army.  He  left  be 
hind  him  a  firm  road  on  which  public  confidence  could 
follow ;  he  took  America  with  him  where  he  went ; 
what  he  gained  he  occupied,  and  his  advanced  posts 
became  colonies.  The  very  homeliness  of  his  genius 
was  its  distinction.  His  kingship  was  conspicuous  by 
its  workday  homespun.  Never  was  ruler  so  absolute 
as  he,  nor  so  little  conscious  of  it ;  for  he  was  the  in 
carnate  common-sense  of  the  people.  With  all  that 
tenderness  of  nature  whose  sweet  sadness  touched 
whoever  saw  him  with  something  of  its  own  pathos, 
there  was  no  trace  of  sentimentalism  in  his  speech  or 
action.  He  seems  to  have  had  but  one  rule  of  con 
duct,  always  that  of  practical  and  successful  politics, 
to  let  himself  be  guided  by  events,  when  they  were 
sure  to  bring  him  out  where  he  wished  to  go,  though 
by  what  seemed  to  unpractical  minds,  which  let  go  the 
possible  to  grasp  at  the  desirable,  a  longer  road. 

Undoubtedly  the  highest  function  of  statesmanship 
is  by  degrees  to  accommodate  the  conduct  of  commu 
nities  to  ethical  laws,  and  to  subordinate  the  conflict 
ing  self-interests  of  the  day  to  higher  and  more  per 
manent  concerns.  But  it  is  on  the  understanding, 
and  not  on  the  sentiment,  of  a  nation  that  all  safe 


272  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

legislation  must  be  based.  Voltaire's  saying,  that  "  a 
consideration  of  petty  circumstances  is  the  tomb  of 
great  things,"  may  be  true  of  individual  men,  but  it 
certainly  is  not  true  of  governments.  It  is  by  a  mul 
titude  of  such  considerations,  each  in  itself  trifling,  but 
all  together  weighty,  that  the  framers  of  policy  can 
alone  divine  what  is  practicable  and  therefore  wise. 
The  imputation  of  inconsistency  is  one  to  which  every 
sound  politician  and  every  honest  thinker  must  sooner 
or  later  subject  himself.  The  foolish  and  the  dead 
alone  never  change  their  opinion.  The  course  of  a 
great  statesman  resembles  that  of  navigable  rivers, 
avoiding  immovable  obstacles  with  noble  bends  of  con 
cession,  seeking  the  broad  levels  of  opinion  on  which 
men  soonest  settle  and  longest  dwell,  following  and 
marking  the  almost  imperceptible  slopes  of  national 
tendency,  yet  always  aiming  at  direct  advances,  always 
recruited  from  sources  nearer  heaven,  and  sometimes 
bursting  open  paths  of  progress  and  fruitful  human 
commerce  through  what  seem  the  eternal  barriers  of 
both.  It  is  loyalty  to  great  ends,  even  though  forced 
to  combine  the  small  and  opposing  motives  of  selfish 
men  to  accomplish  them  ;  it  is  the  anchored  cling  to 
solid  principles  of  duty  and  action,  which  knows  how 
to  swing  with  the  tide,  but  is  never  carried  away  by  it, 
—  that  we  dsmaud  in  public  men,  and  not  sameness 
of  policy,  or  a  conscientious  persistency  in  what  is  im 
practicable.  For  the  impracticable,  however  theoreti 
cally  enticing,  is  always  politically  unwise,  sound 
statesmanship  being  the  application  of  that  prudence 
to  the  public  business  which  is  the  safest  guide  in  that 
of  private  men. 

No  doubt  slavery  was  the  most  delicate  and  embar 
rassing  question  with  which  Mr.  Lincoln  was  called 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  273 

on  to  deal,  and  it  was  one  which  no  man  in  his  posi 
tion,  whatever  his  opinions,  could  evade  ;  for,  though 
he  might  withstand  the  clamor  of  partisans,  he  must 
sooner  or  later  yield  to  the  persistent  importunacy  of 
circumstances,  which  thrust  the  problem  upon  him  at 
every  turn  and  in  every  shape. 

It  has  been  brought  against  us  as  an  accusation 
abroad,  and  repeated  here  by  people  who  measure 
their  country  rather  by  what  is  thought  of  it  than  by 
what  it  is,  that  our  war  has  not  been  distinctly  and 
avowedly  for  the  extinction  of  slavery,  but  a  war  rather 
for  the  preservation  of  our  national  power  and  great 
ness,  in  which  the  emancipation  of  the  negro  has  been 
forced  upon  us  by  circumstances  and  accepted  as  a 
necessity.  We  are  very  far  from  denying  this ;  nay, 
we  admit  that  it  is  so  far  true  that  we  were  slow  to 
renounce  our  constitutional  obligations  even  toward 
those  who  had  absolved  us  by  their  own  act  from  the 
letter  of  our  duty.  We  are  speaking  of  the  govern 
ment  which,  legally  installed  for  the  whole  country, 
was  bound,  so  long  as  it  was  possible,  not  to  overstep 
the  limits  of  orderly  prescription,  and  could  not,  with 
out  abnegating  its  own  very  nature,  take  the  lead  in 
making  rebellion  an  excuse  for  revolution.  There 
were,  no  doubt,  many  ardent  and  sincere  persons  who 
seemed  to  think  this  as  simple  a  thing  to  do  as  to  lead 
off  a  Virginia  reel.  They  forgot,  what  should  be  for 
gotten  least  of  all  in  a  system  like  ours,  that  the  ad 
ministration  for  the  time  being  represents  not  only 
the  majority  which  elects  it,  but  the  minority  as  well, 
—  a  minority  in  this  case  powerful,  and  so  little  ready 
for  emancipation  that  it  was  opposed  even  to  war. 
Mr.  Lincoln  had  not  been  chosen  as  general  agent  of 
an  anti-slavery  society,  but  President  of  the  United 


274  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

States,  to  perform  certain  functions  exactly  defined  by 
law.  Whatever  were  his  wishes,  it  was  no  less  duty 
than  policy  to  mark  out  for  himself  a  line  of  action 
that  would  not  further  distract  the  country,  by  raising 
before  their  time  questions  which  plainly  would  soon 
enough  compel  attention,  and  for  which  every  day 
was  making  the  answer  more  easy. 

Meanwhile  he  must  solve  the  riddle  of  this  new 
Sphinx,  or  be  devoured.  Though  Mr.  Lincoln's  policy 
in  this  critical  affair  has  not  been  such  as  to  satisfy 
those  who  demand  an  heroic  treatment  for  even  the 
most  trifling  occasion,  and  who  will  not  cut  their  coat 
according  to  their  cloth,  unless  they  can  borrow  the 
scissors  of  Atropos,1  it  has  been  at  least  not  unworthy 
of  the  long-headed  king  of  Ithaca.2  Mr.  Lincoln  had 
the  choice  of  Bassanio 3  offered  him.  Which  of  the 
three  caskets  held  the  prize  that  was  to  redeem  the 
fortunes  of  the  country  ?  There  was  the  golden  one 
whose  showy  speciousness  might  have  tempted  a  vain 
man  ;  the  silver  of  compromise,  which  might  have  de 
cided  the  choice  of  a  merely  acute  one;  and  the 
leaden,  —  dull  and  homely-looking,  as  prudence  al 
ways  is,  —  yet  with  something  about  it  sure  to  attract 
the  eye  of  practical  wisdom.  Mr.  Lincoln  dallied 
with  his  decision  perhaps  longer  than  seemed  needful 
to  those  on  whom  its  awful  responsibility  was  not  to 
rest,  but  when  he  made  it,  it  was  worthy  of  his  cau 
tious  but  sure-footed  understanding.  The  moral  of 
the  Sphinx-riddle,  and  it  is  a  deep  one,  lies  in  the 
childish  simplicity  of  the  solution.  Those  who  fail  in 
guessing  it,  fail  because  they  are  over-ingenious,  and 

1  One  of  the  three  Fates. 

2  Odysseus,  or  Ulysses,  the  hero  of  Homer's  Odyssey. 
8  See  Shakespeare's  Merchant  of  Venice. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  275 

cast  about  for  an  answer  that  shall  suit  their  own  no 
tion  of  the  gravity  of  the  occasion  and  of  their  own 
dignity,  rather  than  the  occasion  itself. 

In  a  matter  which  must  be  finally  settled  by  public 
opinion,  and  in  regard  to  which  the  ferment  of  preju 
dice  and  passion  on  both  sides  has  not  yet  subsided  to 
that  equilibrium  of  compromise  from  which  alone  a 
sound  public  opinion  can  result,  it  is  proper  enough 
for  the  private  citizen  to  press  his  own  convictions 
with  all  possible  force  of  argument  and  persuasion  ; 
but  the  popular  magistrate,  whose  judgment  must  be 
come  action,  and  whose  action  involves  the  whole 
country,  is  bound  to  wait  till  the  sentiment  of  the 
people  is  so  far  advanced  toward  his  own  point  of 
view,  that  what  he  does  shall  find  support  in  it,  in 
stead  of  merely  confusing  it  with  new  elements  of  di 
vision.  It  was  not  unnatural  that  men  earnestly  de 
voted  to  the  saving  of  their  country,  and  profoundly 
convinced  that  slavery  was  its  only  real  enemy,  should 
demand  a  decided  policy  round  which  all  patriots 
might  rally,  —  and  this  might  have  been  the  wisest 
course  for  an  absolute  ruler.  But  in  the  then  unset 
tled  state  of  the  public  mind,  with  a  large  party  de 
crying  even  resistance  to  the  slaveholders'  rebellion  as 
not  only  unwise,  but  even  unlawful ;  with  a  majority, 
perhaps,  even  of  the  would-be  loyal  so  long  accus 
tomed  to  regard  the  Constitution  as  a  deed  of  gift 
conveying  to  the  South  their  own  judgment  as  to  pol 
icy  and  instinct  as  to  right,  that  they  were  in  doubt  at 
first  whether  their  loyalty  were  due  to  the  country  or 
to  slavery  ;  and  with  a  respectable  body  of  honest  and 
influential  men  who  still  believed  in  the  possibility  of 
conciliation,  —  Mr.  Lincoln  judged  wisely,  that,  in 
laying  down  a  policy  in  deference  to  one  party,  he 


276  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

should  be  giving  to  the  other  the  very  fulcrum  for 
which  their  disloyalty  had  been  waiting. 

It  behooved  a  clear-headed  man  in  his  position  not 
to  yield  so  far  to  an  honest  indignation  against  the 
brokers  of  treason  in  the  North  as  to  lose  sight  of  the 
materials  for  misleading  which  were  their  stock  in 
trade,  and  to  forget  that  it  is  not  the  falsehood  of 
sophistry  which  is  to  be  feared,  but  the  grain  of  truth 
mingled  with  it  to  make  it  specious,  —  that  it  is  not 
the  knavery  of  the  leaders  so  much  as  the  honesty  of 
the  followers  they  may  seduce,  that  gives  them  power 
for  evil.  It  was  especially  his  duty  to  do  nothing 
which  might  help  the  people  to  forget  the  true  cause 
of  the  war  in  fruitless  disputes  about  its  inevitable 
consequences. 

The  doctrine  of  State  rights  can  be  so  handled  by 
an  adroit  demagogue  as  easily  to  confound  the  distinc 
tion  between  liberty  and  lawlessness  in  the  minds  of 
ignorant  persons,  accustomed  always  to  be  influenced 
by  the  sound  of  certain  words,  rather  than  to  reflect 
upon  the  principles  which  give  them  meaning.  For, 
though  Secession  involves  the  manifest  absurdity  of 
denying  to  a  State  the  right  of  making  war  against 
any  foreign  power  while  permitting  it  against  the 
United  States ;  though  it  supposes  a  compact  of  mu 
tual  concessions  and  guaranties  among  States  without 
any  arbiter  in  case  of  dissension  ;  though  it  contra 
dicts  common-sense  in  assuming  that  the  men  who 

o 

framed  our  government  did  not  know  what  they  meant 
when  they  substituted  Union  for  Confederation ; 
though  it  falsifies  history,  which  shows  that  the  main 
opposition  to  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution  was  based 
on  the  argument  that  it  did  not  allow  that  indepen 
dence  in  the  several  States  which  alone  would  justify 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  277 

them  in  seceding ;  —  yet,  as  slavery  was  universally 
admitted  to  be  a  reserved  right,  an  inference  could  be 
drawn  from  any  direct  attack  upon  it  (though  only  in 
self-defence)  to  a  natural  right  of  resistance,  logical 
enough  to  satisfy  minds  untrained  to  detect  fallacy, 
as  the  majority  of  men  always  are,  and  now  too  much 
disturbed  by  the  disorder  of  the  times,  to  consider  that 
the  order  of  events  had  any  legitimate  bearing  on  the 
argument.  Though  Mr.  Lincoln  was  too  sagacious  to 
give  the  Northern  allies  of  the  Eebels  the  occasion 
they  desired  and  even  strove  to  provoke,  yet  from  the 
beginning  of  the  war  the  most  persistent  efforts  have 
been  made  to  confuse  the  public  mind  as  to  its  origin 
and  motives,  and  to  drag  the  people  of  the  loyal  States 
down  from  the  national  position  they  had  instinctively 
taken  to  the  old  level  of  party  squabbles  and  antipa 
thies.  The  wholly  unprovoked  rebellion  of  an  oli 
garchy  proclaiming  negro  slavery  the  corner-stone  of 
free  institutions,  and  in  the  first  flush  of  over-hasty 
confidence  venturing  to  parade  the  logical  sequence  of 
their  leading  dogma,  "  that  slavery  is  right  in  princi 
ple,  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  difference  of  com 
plexion,"  has  been  represented  as  a  legitimate  and 
gallant  attempt  to  maintain  the  true  principles  of  de 
mocracy.  The  rightful  endeavor  of  an  established 
government,  the  least  onerous  that  ever  existed,  to 
defend  itself  against  a  treacherous  attack  on  its  very 
existence,  has  been  cunningly  made  to  seem  the  wicked 
effort  of  a  fanatical  clique  to  force  its  doctrines  on 
an  oppressed  population. 

Even  so  long  ago  as  when  Mr.  Lincoln,  not  yet  con 
vinced  of  the  danger  and  magnitude  of  the  crisis,  was 
endeavoring  to  persuade  himself  of  Union  majorities  at 
the  South,  and  to  carry  on  a  war  that  was  half  peace 


278  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

in  the  hope  of  a  peace  that  would  have  been  all  war,  — 
while  he  was  still  enforcing  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law, 
under  some  theory  that  Secession,  however  it  might 
absolve  States  from  their  obligations,  could  not  es 
cheat  them  of  their  claims  under  the  Constitution,  and 
that  slaveholders  in  rebellion  had  alone  among  mortals 
the  privilege  of  having  their  cake  and  eating  it  at  the 
same  time,  —  the  enemies  of  free  government  were 
striving  to  persuade  the  people  that  the  war  was  an 
Abolition  crusade.  To  rebel  without  reason  was  pro 
claimed  as  one  of  the  rights  of  man,  while  it  was  care 
fully  kept  out  of  sight  that  to  suppress  rebellion  is  the 
first  duty  of  government.  All  the  evils  that  have 
come  upon  the  country  have  been  attributed  to  the 
Abolitionists,  though  it  is  hard  to  see  how  any  party 
can  become  permanently  powerful  except  in  one  of 
two  ways,  either  by  the  greater  truth  of  its  princi 
ples,  or  the  extravagance  of  the  party  opposed  to  it. 
To  fancy  the  ship  of  state,  riding  safe  at  her  constitu 
tional  moorings,  suddenly  engulfed  by  a  huge  kraken 
of  Abolitionism,  rising  from  unknown  depths  and 
grasping  it  with  slimy  tentacles,  is  to  look  at  the  nat 
ural  history  of  the  matter  with  the  eyes  of  Pontop- 
pidan.1  To  believe  that  the  leaders  in  the  Southern 
treason  feared  any  danger  from  Abolitionism,  would 
be  to  deny  them  ordinary  intelligence,  though  there 
can  be  little  doubt  that  they  made  use  of  it  to  stir  the 
passions  and  excite  the  fears  of  their  deluded  accom 
plices.  They  rebelled,  not  because  they  thought  slav 
ery  weak,  but  because  they  believed  it  strong  enough, 
not  to  overthrow  the  government,  but  to  get  posses 
sion  of  it ;  for  it  becomes  daily  clearer  that  they  used 
rebellion  only  as  a  means  of  revolution,  and  if  they 
1  A  Danish  antiquary  and  theologian. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  279 

got  revolution,  though  not  in  the  shape  they  looked 
for,  is  the  American  people  to  save  them  from  its  con 
sequences  at  the  cost  of  its  own  existence?  The  elec 
tion  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  which  it  was  clearly  in  their 
power  to  prevent  had  they  wished,  was  the  occasion 
merely,  and  not  the  cause  of  their  revolt.  Abolition 
ism,  till  within  a  year  or  two,  was  the  despised  heresy 
of  a  few  earnest  persons,  without  political  weight 
enough  to  carry  the  election  of  a  parish  constable ; 
and  their  cardinal  principle  was  disunion,  because 
they  were  convinced  that  within  the  Union  the  posi 
tion  of  slavery  was  impregnable.  In  spite  of  the 
proverb,  great  effects  do  not  follow  from  small  causes, 
—  that  is,  disproportionately  small,  —  but  from  ade 
quate  causes  acting  under  certain  required  conditions. 
To  contrast  the  size  of  the  oak  with  that  of  the  parent 
acorn,  as  if  the  poor  seed  had  paid  all  costs  from  its 
slender  strong-box,  may  serve  for  a  child's  wonder ; 
but  the  real  miracle  lies,  in  that  divine  league  which 
bound  all  the  forces  of  nature  to  the  service  of  the 
tiny  germ  in  fulfilling  its  destiny.  Everything  has 
been  at  work  for  the  past  ten  years  in  the  cause  of 
anti-slavery,  but  Garrison  and  Phillips  have  been  far 
less  successful  propagandists  than  the  slaveholders 
themselves,  with  the  constantly  growing  arrogance  of 
their  pretensions  and  encroachments.  They  have 
forced  the  question  upon  the  attention  of  every  voter 
in  the  Free  States,  by  defiantly  putting  freedom  and 
democracy  on  the  defensive.  But,  even  after  the 
Kansas  outrages,  there  was  no  wide-spread  desire  on 
the  part  of  the  North  to  commit  aggressions,  though 
there  was  a  growing  determination  to  resist  them. 
The  popular  unanimity  in  favor  of  the  war  three  years 
ago  was  but  in  small  measure  the  result  of  anti-slavery 


280  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

sentiment,  far  less  of  any  zeal  for  abolition.  But 
every  month  of  the  war,  every  movement  of  the  allies 
of  slavery  in  the  Free  States,  has  been  making  Aboli 
tionists  by  the  thousand.  The  masses  of  any  people, 
however  intelligent,  are  very  little  moved  by  abstract 
principles  of  humanity  and  justice,  until  those  prin 
ciples  are  interpreted  for  them  by  the  stinging  com 
mentary  of  some  infringement  upon  their  own  rights, 
and  then  their  instincts  and  passions,  once  aroused, 
do  indeed  derive  an  incalculable  reinforcement  of 
impulse  and  intensity  from  those  higher  ideas,  those 
sublime  traditions,  which  have  no  motive  political 
force  till  they  are  allied  with  a  sense  of  immediate 
personal  wrong  or  imminent  peril.  Then  at  last  the 
stars  in  their  courses  begin  to  fight  against  Si  sera. 
Had  any  one  doubted  before  that  the  rights  of  human 
nature  are  unitary,  that  oppression  is  of  one  hue  the 
world  over,  no  matter  what  the  color  of  the  oppressed, 
—  had  any  one  failed  to  see  what  the  real  essence  of 
the  contest  was,  —  the  efforts  of  the  advocates  of  slav 
ery  among  ourselves  to  throw  discredit  upon  the  fun 
damental  axioms  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
and  the  radical  doctrines  of  Christianity,  could  not 
fail  to  sharpen  his  eyes. 

While  every  day  was  bringing  the  people  nearer  to 
the  conclusion  which  all  thinking  men  saw  to  be  inev 
itable  from  the  beginning,  it  was  wise  in  Mr.  Lincoln 
to  leave  the  shaping  of  his  policy  to  events.  In  this 
country,  where  the  rough  and  ready  understanding  of 
the  people  is  sure  at  last  to  be  the  controlling  power, 
a  profound  common-sense  is  the  best  genius  for  states 
manship.  Hitherto  the  wisdom  of  the  President's 
measures  has  been  justified  by  the  fact  that  they  have 
always  resulted  in  more  firmly  uniting  public  opinion. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  281 

One  of  the  tilings  particularly  admirable  in  the  public 
utterances  of  President  Lincoln  is  a  certain  tone  of 
familiar  dignity,  which,  while  it  is  perhaps  the  most 
difficult  attainment  of  mere  style,  is  also  no  doubtful 
indication  of  personal  character.  There  must  be 
something  essentially  noble  in  an  elective  ruler  who 
can  descend  to  the  level  of  confidential  ease  without 
losing  respect,  something  very  manly  in  one  who  can 
break  through  the  etiquette  of  his  conventional  rank 
and  trust  himself  to  the  reason  and  intelligence  of 
those  who  have  elected  him.  No  higher  compliment 
was  ever  paid  to  a  nation  than  the  simple  confidence, 
the  fireside  plainness,  with  which  Mr.  Lincoln  always 
addresses  himself  to  the  reason  of  the  American  people. 
This  was,  indeed,  a  true  democrat,  who  grounded  him 
self  on  the  assumption  that  a  democracy  can  think. 
"  Come,  let  us  reason  together  about  this  matter,"  has 
been  the  tone  of  all  his  addresses  to  the  people ;  and 
accordingly  we  have  never  had  a  chief  magistrate  who 
so  won  to  himself  the  love  and  at  the  same  time  the 
judgment  of  his  countrymen.  To  us,  that  simple  con 
fidence  of  his  in  the  right-mindedness  of  his  fellow- 
men  is  very  touching,  and  its  success  is  as  strong  an 
argument  as  we  have  ever  seen  in  favor  of  the  theory 
that  men  can  govern  themselves.  He  never  appeals 
to  any  vulgar  sentiment,  he  never  alludes  to  the  hum 
bleness  of  his  origin ;  it  probably  never  occurred  to 
him,  indeed,  that  there  was  anything  higher  to  start 
from  than  manhood ;  and  he  put  himself  on  a  level 
with  those  he  addressed,  not  by  going  down  to  them, 
but  only  by  taking  it  for  granted  that  they  had  brains 
and  would  come  up  to  a  common  ground  of  reason. 
In  an  article  lately  printed  in  The  Nation,  Mr.  Bay 
ard  Taylor  mentions  the  striking  fact,  that  in  the 


282  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

foulest  dens  of  the  Five  Points  he  found  the  portrait 
of  Lincoln.  The  wretched  population  that  makes  its 
hive  there  threw  all  its  votes  and  more  against  him, 
and  yet  paid  this  instinctive  tribute  to  the  sweet  hu 
manity  of  his  nature.  Their  ignorance  sold  its  vote 
and  took  its  money,  but  all  that  was  left  of  manhood 
in  them  recognized  its  saint  and  martyr. 

Mr.  Lincoln  is  not  in  the  habit  of  saying,  "  This  is 
my  opinion,  or  my  theory,"  but  "  This  is  the  conclu 
sion  to  which,  in  my  judgment,  the  time  has  come,  and 
to  which,  accordingly,  the  sooner  we  come  the  better 
for  us."  His  policy  has  been  the  policy  of  public 
opinion  based  on  adequate  discussion  and  on  a  timely 
recognition  of  the  influence  of  passing  events  in  shap 
ing  the  features  of  events  to  come. 

One  secret  of  Mr.  Lincoln's  remarkable  success  in 
captivating  the  popular  mind  is  undoubtedly  an  un 
consciousness  of  self  which  enables  him,  though  under 
the  necessity  of  constantly  using  the  capital  /,  to  do 
it  without  any  suggestion  of  egotism.  There  is  no 
single  vowel  which  men's  mouths  can  pronounce  with 
such  difference  of  effect.  That  which  one  shall  hide 
away,  as  it  were,  behind  the  substance  of  his  dis 
course,  or,  if  he  bring  it  to  the  front,  shall  use  merely 
to  give  an  agreeable  accent  of  individuality  to  what 
he  says,  another  shall  make  an  offensive  challenge  to 
the  self-satisfaction  of  all  his  hearers,  and  an  unwar 
ranted  intrusion  upon  each  man's  sense  of  personal 
importance,  irritating  every  pore  of  his  vanity,  like 
a  dry  northeast  wind,  to  a  goose-flesh  of  opposition 
and  hostility.  Mr.  Lincoln  has  never  studied  Quin- 
tilian ; l  but  he  has,  in  the  earnest  simplicity  and  un 
affected  Americanism  of  his  own  character,  one  art 
1  A  famous  Latin  writer  on  the  Art  of  Oratory. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  283 

% 

of  oratory  worth  all  the  rest.  He  forgets  himself  so 
entirely  in  his  object  as  to  give  his  /  the  sympathetic 
and  persuasive  effect  of  We  with  the  great  body  of 
his  countrymen.  Homely,  dispassionate,  showing  all 
the  rough-edged  process  of  his  thought  as  it  goes 
along,  yet  arriving  at  his  conclusions  with  an  honest 
kind  of  every-day  logic,  he  is  so  eminently  our  repre 
sentative  man,  that,  when  he  speaks,  it  seems  as  if  the 
people  were  listening  to  their  own  thinking  aloud. 
The  dignity  of  his  thought  owes  nothing  to  any  cere 
monial  garb  of  words,  but  to  the  manly  movement 
that  comes  of  settled  purpose  and  an  energy  of  reason 
that  knows  not  what  rhetoric  means.  There  has  been 
nothing  of  Cleon,  still  less  of  Strepsiades 1  striving  to 
underbid  him  in  demagogism,  to  be  found  in  the  pub 
lic  utterances  of  Mr.  Lincoln.  He  has  always  ad 
dressed  the  intelligence  of  men,  never  their  prejudice, 
their  passion,  or  their  ignorance. 


On  the  day  of  his  death,  this  simple  Western  attor 
ney,  who  according  to  one  party  was  a  vulgar  joker, 
and  whom  the  doctrinaires  among  his  own  supporters 
accused  of  wanting  every  element  of  statesmanship, 
was  the  most  absolute  ruler  in  Christendom,  and  this 
solely  by  the  hold  his  good-humored  sagacity  had  laid 
on  the  hearts  and  understandings  of  his  countrymen. 
Nor  was  this  all,  for  it  appeared  that  he  had  drawn 
the  great  majority,  not  only  of  his  fellow-citizens,  but 
of  mankind  also,  to  his  side.  So  strong  and  so  per 
suasive  is  honest  manliness  without  a  single  quality  of 
romance  or  unreal  sentiment  to  help  it !  A  civilian 

1  Two  Athenian  demagogues,  satirized  by  the  dramatist  Aris 
tophanes. 


284  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

during  times  of  the  most  captivating  military  achieve 
ment,  awkward,  with  no  skill  in  the  lower  technicali 
ties  of  manners,  he  left  behind  him  a  fame  beyond 
that  of  any  conqueror,  the  memory  of  a  grace  higher 
than  that  of  outward  person,  and  of  a  gentlemanliness 
deeper  than  mere  breeding.  Never  before  that  star 
tled  April  morning  did  such  multitudes  of  men  shed 
tears  for  the  death  of  one  they  had  never  seen,  as  if 
with  him  a  friendly  presence  had  been  taken  away  from 
their  lives,  leaving  them  colder  and  darker.  Never 
was  funeral  panegyric  so  eloquent  as  the  silent  look 
of  sympathy  which  strangers  exchanged  when  they 
met  on  that  day.  Their  common  manhood  had  lost  a 
kinsman. 


III.       , 

BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES. 

A  FEW  years  ago  my  friend,  Mr.  Alexander  Ire 
land,  published  a  very  interesting  volume  which  he 
called  The  Book  -  Lover1  s  Enchiridion,  the  hand 
book,1  that  is  to  say,  of  those  who  love  books.  It 
was  made  up  of  extracts  from  the  writings  of  a  great 
variety  of  distinguished  men,  ancient  and  modern,  m 
praise  of  books.  It  was  a  chorus  of  many  voices  in 
many  tongues,  a  hymn  of  gratitude  and  praise,  full 
of  such  piety  and  fervor  as  can  be  paralleled  only  in 
songs  dedicated  to  the  supreme  Power,  the  supreme 
Wisdom,  and  the  supreme  Love.  Nay,  there  is  a  glow 
of  enthusiasm  and  sincerity  in  it  which  is  often  pain 
fully  wanting  in  those  other  too  commonly  mechani 
cal  compositions.  We  feel  at  once  that  here  it  is 
out  of  the  fulness  of  the  heart,  yes,  and  of  the  head 
too,  that  the  mouth  speaketh.  Here  was  none  of  that 
compulsory  commonplace  which  is  wont  to  charac 
terize  those  "  testimonials  of  celebrated  authors,"  by 
means  of  which  publishers  sometimes  strive  to  linger 
out  the  passage  of  a  hopeless  book  toward  its  requi- 
escat 2  in  oblivion.  These  utterances  which  Mr.  Ire- 

1  Handbook  is  a  translation  of  the  Greek  word  enchiridion, 

2  It  was  once  more  common  than  now  to  place  upon  tomb 
stones  the  Latin  words  Requiescat  in  pace:  May  he  rest  in 
peace. 


286  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

land  has  gathered  lovingly  together  are  stamped  with 
that  spontaneousness  which  is  the  mint-mark  of  all 
sterling  speech.  It  is  true  that  they  are  mostly,  as 
is  only  natural,  the  utterances  of  literary  men,  and 
there  is  a  well-founded  proverbial  distrust  of  herring 
that  bear  only  the  brand  of  the  packer,  and  not  that 
of  the  sworn  inspector.  But  to  this  objection  a  cynic 
might  answer  with  the  question,  "  Are  authors  so 
prone,  then,  to  praise  the  works  of  other  people  that 
we  are  to  doubt  them  when  they  do  it  unasked  ?  " 
Perhaps  the  wisest  thing  I  could  have  done  to-night 
would  have  been  to  put  upon  the  stand  some  of  the 
more  weighty  of  this  cloud  of  witnesses.  But  since 
your  invitation  implied  that  I  should  myself  say 
something,  I  will  endeavor  to  set  before  you  a  few  of 
the  commonplaces  of  the  occasion,  as  they  may  be 
modified  by  passing  through  my  own  mind,  or  by  hav 
ing  made  themselves  felt  in  my  own  experience. 

The  greater  part  of  Mr.  Ireland's  witnesses  testify 
to  the  comfort  and  consolation  they  owe  to  books,  to 
the  refuge  they  have  found  in  them  from  sorrow  or 
misfortune,  to  their  friendship,  never  estranged  and 
outliving  all  others.  This  testimony  they  volunteered. 
Had  they  been  asked,  they  would  have  borne  evi 
dence  as  willingly  to  the  higher  and  more  general  uses 
of  books  in  their  service  to  the  commonwealth,  as  well 
as  to  the  individual  man.  Consider,  for  example, 
how  a  single  page  of  Burke  may  emancipate  the 
young  student  of  politics  from  narrow  views  and 
merely  contemporaneous  judgments.1  Our  English 
ancestors,  with  that  common-sense  which  is  one  of  the 

1  An  interesting  reference  to  Burke  as  a  political  thinker  will 
be  found  in  Mr.  Lowell's  paper,  The  Place  of  the  Independent  in 
Politics,  in  his  volume  of  Political  Essays, 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  287 

most  useful,  though  not  one  of  the  most  engaging, 
properties  of  the  race,  made  a  rhyming  proverb,  which 
says  that  — 

"  When  land  and  goods  are  gone  and  spent 
Then  learning  is  most  excellent ; " 

and  this  is  true  so  far  as  it  goes,  though  it  goes  per 
haps  hardly  far  enough.  The  law  also  calls  only  the 
earth  and  what  is  immovably  attached  to  it  real l 
property,  but  I  am  of  opinion  that  those  only  are  real 
possessions  which  abide  with  a  man  after  he  has  been 
stripped  of  those  others  falsely  so  called,  and  which 
alone  save  him  from  seeming  and  from  being  the  mis 
erable  forked  radish  to  which  the  bitter  scorn  of  Lear 
degraded  every  child  of  Adam.2  The  riches  of  schol 
arship,  the  benignities  of  literature,  defy  fortune  and 
outlive  calamity.  They  are  beyond  the  reach  of  thief 
or  moth  or  rust.  As  they  cannot  be  inherited,  so 
they  cannot  be  alienated.  But  they  may  be  shared, 
they  may  be  distributed,  and  it  is  the  object  and  office 
of  a  free  public  library  to  perform  these  beneficent 
functions. 

"  Books,"  says  Wordsworth,  "  are  a  real  world,"  8 
and  he  was  thinking,  doubtless,  of  such  books  as  are 
not  merely  the  triumphs  of  pure  intellect,  however 
supreme,  but  of  those  in  which  intellect  infused  with 
the  sense  of  beauty  aims  rather  to  produce  delight 
than  conviction,  or,  if  conviction,  then  through  intui 
tion  rather  than  formal  logic,  and,  leaving  what  Donne 
wisely  calls  — 

1  What  is  personal  property  or  estate,  as  distinguished  from 
real? 

2  See  King  Lear,   Act  IIL  sc.  4 ;  but  see  King  Henry  /F., 
Part  II.,  Act  III.  sc.  2. 

8  In  what  poern  ? 


288  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

"  Unconcerning  things,  matters  of  fact,"  l 
to  science  and  the  understanding,  seeks  to  give  ideal 
expression  to  those  abiding  realities  of  the  spiritual 
world  for  which  the  outward  and  visible  world  serves 
at  best  but  as  the  husk  and  symbol.  Am  I  wrong  in 
using  the  word  realities  ?  wrong  in  insisting  on  the 
distinction  between  the  real  and  the  actual  ?  in  assum 
ing  for  the  ideal  an  existence  as  absolute  and  self- 
subsistent  as  that  which  appeals  to  our  senses,  nay, 
so  often  cheats  them,  in  the  matter  of  fact?  How 
very  small  a  part  of  the  world  we  truly  live  in  is 
represented  by  what  speaks  to  us  through  the  senses 
when  compared  with  that  vast  realm  of  the  mind 
which  is  peopled  by  memory  and  imagination,  and 
with  such  shining  inhabitants !  These  walls,  these 
faces,  what  are  they  in  comparison  with  the  countless 
images,  the  innumerable  population  which  every  one 
of  us  can  summon  up  to  the  tiny  show-box  of  the 
brain,  in  material  breadth  scarce  a  span,  yet  infinite 
as  space  and  time  ?  and  in  what,  I  pray,  are  those  we 
gravely  call  historical  characters,  of  which  each  new 
historian  strains  his  neck  to  get  a  new  and  different 
view,  in  any  sense  more  real  than  the  personages  of 
fiction  ?  Do  not  serious  and  earnest  men  discuss 

1  A  line  in  the  poem  Of  the  Progress  of  the  Soul.     The  passage 
should  be  read  in  full. 

"  We  see  in  authors,  too  stiff  to  recant, 
A  hundred  controversies  of  an  ant ; 
And  yet  one  watches,  starves,  freezes,  and  sweats, 
To  know  but  catechisms  and  alphabets 
Of  unconcerning  things,  matters  of  fact, 
How  others  on  our  stage  their  parts  did  act, 
What  Caesar  did,  yea,  and  what  Cicero  said  : 
Why  grass  is  green,  or  why  our  blood  is  red, 
Are  mysteries  which  none  have  reached  unto ; 
In  this  low  form,  poor  soul,  what  wilt  thou  do  ? 
Oh  !  when  wilt  thou  shake  off  this  pedantry, 
Of  being  taught  by  sense  and  fantasy  ?  " 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  289 

Hamlet  as  they  would  Cromwell  or  Lincoln  ?  Does 
Caesar,  does  Alaric,  hold  existence  by  any  other  or 
stronger  tenure  than  the  Christian  of  Bunyan,  or  the 
Don  Quixote  of  Cervantes,  or  the  Antigone  of  Sopho 
cles?  Is  not  the  history  which  is  luminous  because 
of  an  indwelling  and  perennial  truth  to  nature,  be 
cause  of  that  light  which  never  was  on  sea  or  land,1 
really  more  true,  in  the  highest  sense,  than  many  a 
weary  chronicle  with  names  and  date  and  place  in 
which  "  an  Amurath  to  Amurath  succeeds  "  ?  Do  we 
know  as  much  of  any  authentic  Danish  prince  as  of 
Hamlet  ? 

But  to  come  back  a  little  nearer  to  Chelsea  and  the 
occasion  that  has  called  us  together.  The  founders 
of  New  England,  if  sometimes,  when  they  found  it 
needful,  an  impracticable,  were  always  a  practical 
people.  Their  first  care,  no  doubt,  was  for  an  ade 
quate  supply  of  powder,  and  they  encouraged  the 
manufacture  of  musket  bullets  by  enacting  that  they 
should  pass  as  currency  at  a  farthing  each,  —  a  coin 
age  nearer  to  its  nominal  value  and  not  heavier  than 
some  with  which  we  are  familiar.  Their  second  care 
was  that  "  good  learning  should  not  perish  from  among 
us,"  and  to  this  end  they  at  once  established  the 
Grammar  (Latin)  School2  in  Boston,  and  soon  after 
the  college  at  Cambridge.  The  nucleus  of  this  was, 
as  you  all  know,  the  bequest  in  money  by  John  Har 
vard.  Hardly  less  important,  however,  was  the  legacy 
of  his  library,  a  collection  of  good  books,  inconsider- 

1  See  Wordsworth's  poem,  Elegiac  Stanzas  suggested  ly  a 
Picture  of  Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm. 

3  An  interesting  account  of  this  school  may  be  read  in  The 
Oldest  School  in  A  merica,  containing  a  notable  historical  address 
by  Phillips  Brooks. 


290  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

able  measured  by  the  standard  of  to-day,  but  very 
considerable  then  as  the  possession  of  a  private  per 
son.  From  that  little  acorn  what  an  oak  has  sprung, 
and  from  its  acorns  again  what  a  vocal  forest,  as  old 
Howell  would  have  called  it !  —  old  Howell,  whom  I 
love  to  cite,  because  his  name  gave  their  title  to  the 
Essays  of  Mia,1  and  is  borne  with  slight  variation 
by  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  modern  authors.  It 
was,  in  my  judgment,  those  two  foundations,  more 
than  anything  else,  which  gave  to  New  England  char 
acter  its  bent,  and  to  Boston  that  literary  supremacy 
which,  I  am  told,  she  is  in  danger  of  losing,  but  which 
she  will  not  lose  till  she  and  all  the  world  lose  Holmes. 
The  opening  of  a  free  public  library,2  then,  is  a 
most  important  event  in  the  history  of  any  town.  A 
college  training  is  an  excellent  thing ;  but,  after  all, 
the  better  part  of  every  man's  education  is  that  which 
he  gives  himself,  and  it  is  for  this  that  a  good  library 
should  furnish  the  opportunity  and  the  means.  I  have 
sometimes  thought  that  our  public  schools  undertook 
to  teach  too  much,  and  that  the  older  system,  which 
taught  merely  the  three  R's,  and  taught  them  well, 
leaving  natural  selection  to  decide  who  should  go 
farther,  was  the  better.  However  this  may  be,  all 

1  Mr.  Lowell  here    conjectures  that  Lamb,  who  was  at  home 
in  quaint  English  literature,  adopted  his  signature  of  Elia  from 
the  EpistoloE  Ho-Eliance  of  James  Howell,  a  writer  of  the  former 
half  of  the  seventeenth  century  ;  but  Lamb  himself,  in  a  letter 
to  his  publishers,  states  that  he  took  the  name  of  Elia,  which  he 
tells  them  to  pronounce  Ellia,  from  a  former  fellow-clerk  of  his 
at  the  India  House,  an  Italian  named  Elia. 

2  It  would  be    an  interesting  study  for  any  one  to  trace  the 
rise  and  growth  of  public  libraries  in  the  United  States.     Abun 
dant  material  will  be  founrl  in  a  Special  Report  issued  by  the 
Bureau  of  Education  at  Washington  in  1876. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  291 

that  is  primarily  needful  in  order  to  use  a  library  is 
the  ability  to  read.  I  say  primarily,  for  there  must 
also  be  the  inclination,  and,  after  that,  some  guidance 
in  reading  well.  Formerly  the  duty  of  a  librarian 
was  considered  too  much  that  of  a  watch-dog,  to  keep 
people  as  much  as  possible  away  from  the  books,  and 
to  hand  these  over  to  his  successor  as  little  worn  by 
use  as  he  could.  Librarians  now,  it  is  pleasant  to  see, 
have  a  different  notion  of  their  trust,  and  are  in  the 
habit  of  preparing,  for  the  direction  of  the  inexperi 
enced,  lists  of  such  books  as  they  think  best  worth 
reading.  Cataloguing  has  also,  thanks  in  great  mea 
sure  to  American  librarians,  become  a  science,  and 
catalogues,  ceasing  to  be  labyrinths  without  a  clew, 
are  furnished  with  finger-posts  at  every  turn.  Sub 
ject  catalogues  again  save  the  beginner  a  vast  deal  of 
time  and  trouble  by  supplying  him  for  nothing  with 
one  at  least  of  the  results  of  thorough  scholarship,  the 
knowing  where  to  look  for  what  he  wants.  I  do  not 
mean  by  this  that  there  is  or  can  be  any  short  cut  to 
learning,  but  that  there  may  be,  and  is,  such  a  short 
cut  to  information  that  will  make  learning  more  easily 
accessible. 

But  have  you  ever  rightly  considered  what  the  mere 
ability  to  read  means  ?  That  it  is  the  key  which  ad 
mits  us  to  the  whole  world  of  thought  and  fancy  and 
imagination  ?  to  the  company  of  saint  and  sage,  of  the 
wisest  and  the  wittiest  at  their  wisest  and  wittiest  mo 
ment?  That  it  enables  us  to  see  with  the  keenest 
eyes,  hear  with  the  finest  ears,  and  listen  to  the  sweet 
est  voices  of  all  time  ?  More  than  that,  it  annihilates 
time  and  space  for  us;  it  revives  for  us  without  a 
miracle  the  Age  of  Wonder,  endowing  us  with  the 
shoes  of  swiftness  and  the  cap  of  darkness,  so  that  we 


292  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

walk  invisible  like  Fern-seed,1  and  witness  unharmed 
the  plague  2  at  Athens  or  Florence  or  London  ;  ac 
company  Caesar  on  his  marches,  or  look  in  on  Catiline 
in  council  with  his  fellow-conspirators,  or  Guy  Favvkes 
in  the  cellar  of  St.  Stephen's.  We  often  hear  of  peo 
ple  who  will  descend  to  any  servility,  submit  to  any 
insult,  for  the  sake  of  getting  themselves  or  their  chil 
dren  into  what  is  euphemistically  called  good  society. 
Did  it  ever  occur  to  them  that  there  is  a  select  society 
of  all  the  centuries  to  which  they  and  theirs  can  be 
admitted  for  the  asking,  a  society,  too,  which  will  not 
involve  them  in  ruinous  expense,  and  still  more  ruin 
ous  waste  of  time  and  health  and  faculties  ? 

Southey  tells  us  that,  in  his  walk  one  stormy  day, 
he  met  an  old  woman,  to  whom,  by  way  of  greeting, 
he  made  the  rather  obvious  remark  that  it  was  dread 
ful  weather.  She  answered,  philosophically,  that,  in 
her  opinion,  "  any  weather  was  better  than  none !  " 
I  should  be  half  inclined  to  say  that  any  reading  was 
better  than  none,  allaying  the  crudeness  of  the  state 
ment  by  the  Yankee  proverb,  which  tells  us  that, 
though  "  all  deacons  are  good,  there  's  odds  in  dea 
cons."  Among  books,  certainly,  there  is  much  variety 
of  company,  ranging  from  the  best  to  the  worst,  from 
Plato  to  Zola ;  and  the  first  lesson  in  reading  well  is 
that  which  teaches  us  to  distinguish  between  litera 
ture  and  merely  printed  matter.  The  choice  lies 
wholly  with  ourselves.  We  have  the  key  put  into 
our  hands;  shall  we  unlock  the  pantry  or  the  ora- 

1  Any  good  collection  of  fairy  tales  will  enable  one  to  re 
count  the  stories  which  make  use  of  the  shoes,  the  cap,  and  the 
fern-seed. 

2  Thucydides   describes   the   plague  at  Athens  ;   Defoe,  the 
plague  at  London. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  293 

tory?  There  is  a  Wallachian  legend  which,  like 
most  of  the  figments  of  popular  fancy,  has  a  moral  in 
it.  One  Bakala,  a  good-for-nothing  kind  of  fellow  in 
his  way,  having  had  the  luck  to  otter  a  sacrifice  espe 
cially  well  pleasing  to  God,  is  taken  up  into  heaven. 
He  finds  the  Almighty  sitting  in  something  like  the 
best  room  of  a  Wallachian  peasant's  cottage  —  there 
is  always  a  profound  pathos  in  the  homeliness  of  the 
popular  imagination,  forced,  like  the  princess  in  the 
fairy  tale,  to  weave  its  semblance  of  gold  tissue  out 
of  straw.  On  being  asked  what  reward  he  desires 
for  the  good  service  he  has  done,  Bakala,  who  had 
always  passionately  longed  to  be  the  owner  of  a  bag 
pipe,  seeing  a  half  worn-out  one  lying  among  some 
rubbish  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  begs  eagerly  that  it 
may  be  bestowed  on  him.  The  Lord,  with  a  smile  of 
pity  at  the  meanness  of  his  choice,  grants  him  his 
boon,  and  Bakala  goes  back  to  earth  delighted  with 
his  prize.  With  an  infinite  possibility  within  his 
reach,  with  the  choice  of  wisdom,  of  power,  of  beauty 
at  his  tongue's  end,  he  asked  according  to  his  kind, 
and  his  sordid  wish  is  answered  with  a  gift  as  sordid. 
Yes,  there  is  a  choice  in  books  as  in  friends,  and  the 
mind  sinks  or  rises  to  the  level  of  its  habitual  society, 
is  subdued,  as  Shakespeare  says  of  the  dyer's  hand, 
to  what  it  works  in.1  Cato's  advice,  cum  bonis  am- 
bula  (consort  with  the  good),  is  quite  as  true  if  we 
extend  it  to  books,  for  they,  too,  insensibly  give  away 
their  own  nature  to  the  mind  that  converses  with 
them.  They  either  beckon  upwards  or  drag  down. 
Du  gleichst  dem  Geist  den  du  begreifst?  says  the 
World  Spirit  to  Faust,  and  this  is  true  of  the  ascend- 

1  Sonnet  cxi. 

2  Thou  'rt  like  the  Spirit  whom  thou  conceivest. 


294  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

ing  no  less  than  of  the  descending  scale.  Every  book 
we  read  may  be  made  a  round  in  the  ever-lengthen 
ing  ladder  by  which  we  climb  to  knowledge,  and  to 
that  temperance  and  serenity  of  mind  which,  as  it  is 
the  ripest  fruit  of  Wisdom,  is  also  the  sweetest.  But 
this  can  only  be  if  we  read  such  books  as  make  us 
think,  and  read  them  in  such  a  way  as  helps  them  to 
do  so,  that  is,  by  endeavoring  to  judge  them,  and  thus 
to  make  them  an  exercise  rather  than  a  relaxation  of 
the  mind.  Desultory  reading,  except  as  conscious 
pastime,  hebetates  the  brain  and  slackens  the  bow 
string  of  Will.  It  communicates  as  little  intelligence 
as  the  messages  that  run  along  the  telegraph  wire  to 
the  birds  that  perch  on  it.  Few  men  learn  the  high 
est  use  of  books.  After  lifelong  study  many  a  man 
discovers  too  late  that  to  have  had  the  philosopher's 
stone  availed  nothing  without  the  philosopher  to  use 
it.  Many  a  scholarly  life,  stretched  like  a  talking 
wire  to  bring  the  wisdom  of  antiquity  into  communion 
with  the  present,  can  at  last  yield  us  no  better  news 
that  the  true  accent  of  a  Greek  verse,  or  the  transla 
tion  of  some  filthy  nothing  scrawled  on  the  walls  of 
a  brothel  by  some  Pompeian  idler.  And  it  is  cer 
tainly  true  that  the  material  of  thought  reacts  upon 
the  thought  itself.  Shakespeare  himself  would  have 
been  commonplace  had  he  been  paddocked  in  a  thinly- 
shaven  vocabulary,  and  Phidias,  had  he  worked  in 
wax,  only  a  more  inspired  Mrs.  Jarley.  A  man  is 
known,  says  the  proverb,  by  the  company  he  keeps, 
and  not  only  so,  but  made  by  it.  Milton  makes  his 
fallen  angels  grow  small  to  enter  the  infernal  council 
room,1  but  the  soul,  which  God  meant  to  be  the  spa 
cious  chamber  where  high  thoughts  and  generous  aspi« 
1  See  Paradise  Lost,  Book  I.  lines  775-798. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  295 

rations  might  commune  together,  shrinks  and  narrows 
itself  to  the  measure  of  the  meaner  company  that  is 
wont  to  gather  there,  hatching  conspiracies  against 
*our  better  selves.  We  are  apt  to  wonder  at  the 
scholarship  of  the  men  of  three  centuries  ago,  and  at 
a  certain  dignity  of  phrase  that  characterizes  them. 
They  were  scholars  because  they  did  not  read  so  many 
things  as  we.  They  had  fewer  books,  but  these  were 
of  the  best.  Their  speech  was  noble  because  they 
lunched  with  Plutarch  and  supped  with  Plato.  We 
spend  as  much  time  over  print  as  they  did,  but  in' 
stead  of  communing  with  the  choice  thoughts  of 
choice  spirits,  and  unconsciously  acquiring  the  grand 
manner  of  that  supreme  society,  we  diligently  inform 
ourselves,  and  cover  the  continent  with  a  cobweb  of 
telegraphs  to  inform  us,  of  such  inspiring  facts  as 
that  a  horse  belonging  to  Mr.  Smith  ran  away  on 
Wednesday,  seriously  damaging  a  valuable  carryall ; 
that  a  son  of  Mr.  Brown  swallowed  a  hickory  nut 
on  Thursday ;  and  that  a  gravel  bank  caved  in  and 
buried  Mr.  Robinson  alive  on  Friday.  Alas,  it  is  we 
ourselves  that  are  getting  buried  alive  under  this 
avalanche  of  earthy  impertinences!  It  is  we  who, 
while  we  might  each  in  his  humble  way  be  helping 
our  fellows  into  the  right  path,  or  adding  one  block 
to  the  climbing  spire  of  a  fine  soul,  are  willing  to 
become  mere  sponges  saturated  from  the  stagnant 
goose-pond  of  village  gossip.  This  is  the  kind  of 
news  we  compass  the  globe  to  catch,  fresh  from  Bung- 
town  Centre,  when  we  might  have  it  fresh  from 
heaven  by  the  electric  lines  of  poet  or  prophet  \l  It  is 

1  It  might  not  be  uninstructive  for  one  to  make  such  compu 
tations  as  these  :  How  much  time  does  it  take  to  read  my  cus 
tomary  local  newspaper  ?  What  is  the  shortest  time  I  can  give 


296  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

bad  enough  that  we  should  be  compelled  to  know  so 
many  nothings,  but  it  is  downright  intolerable  that 
we  must  wash  so  many  barrow-loads  of  gravel  to  find 
a  grain  of  mica  after  all.  And  then  to  be  told  that* 
the  ability  to  read  makes  us  all  shareholders  in  the 
Bonanza  Mine  of  Universal  Intelligence  I 

One  is  sometimes  asked  by  young  people  to  recom 
mend  a  course  of  reading.  My  advice  would  be  that 
they  should  confine  themselves  to  the  supreme  books 
in  whatever  literature,  or  still  better  to  choose  some 
one  great  author,  and  make  themselves  thoroughly 
familiar  with  him.  For,  as  all  roads  lead  to  Rome, 
so  do  they  likewise  lead  away  from  it,  and  you  will 
find  that,  in  order  to  understand  perfectly  and  weigh 
exactly  any  vital  piece  of  literature,  you  will  be 
gradually  and  pleasantly  persuaded  to  excursions  and 
explorations  of  which  you  little  dreamed  when  you 
began,  and  will  find  yourselves  scholars  before  you  are 
aware.  For  remember  that  there  is  nothing  less 
profitable  than  scholarship  for  the  mere  sake  of 
scholarship,  nor  anything  more  wearisome  in  the  at 
tainment.  But  the  moment  you  have  a  definite  aim, 
attention  is  quickened,  the  mother  of  memory,  and 
all  that  you  acquire  groups  and  arranges  itself  in  an 
order  that  is  lucid,  because  everywhere  and  always  it 
is  in  intelligent  relation  to  a  central  object  of  con 
stant  and  growing  interest.  This  method  also  forces 
upon  us  the  necessity  of  thinking,  which  is,  after  all, 

to  it  and  get  the  really  important  things  out  of  it  ?  How  many 
numbers  of  my  newspaper  would  correspond  in  time  of  reading 
with  Shakespeare's  Tempest  f  How  much  should  I  remember  of 
the  papers  a  month  afterward  ?  how  much  of  The  Tempest  ?  But 
newspapers  are  not  to  be  despised ;  only  we  are  to  study  econ 
omy  in  the  using  of  them. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  207 

the  highest  result  of  all  education.  For  what  we 
want  is  not  learning,  but  knowledge;  that  is,  the 
power  to  make  learning  answer  its  true  end  as  a 
quickener  of  intelligence  and  a  widener  of  our  intel 
lectual  sympathies.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  every 
one  is  fitted  by  nature  or  inclination  for  a  definite 
course  of  study,  or  indeed  for  serious  study  in  any 
sense.  I  am  quite  willing  that  these  should  "  browse 
in  a  library,"  as  Dr.  Johnson  called  it,  to  their  hearts' 
content.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  only  way  in  which  time 
may  be  profitably  wasted.  But  desultory  reading 
will  not  make  a  "  full  man,"  as  Bacon  understood  it, 
of  one  who  has  not  Johnson's  memory,  his  power  of 
assimilation,  and,  above  all,  his  comprehensive  view  of 
the  relations  of  things.  "  Read  not,"  says  Lord  Bacon 
in  his  Essay  of  Studies?  "  to  contradict  and  confute ; 
nor  to  believe  and  take  for  granted ;  nor  to  find  talk 
and  discourse ;  but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books 
are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some 
few  to  be  chewed  and  digested ;  that  is,  some  books 
are  to  be  read  only  in  parts ;  others  to  be  read,  but 
not  curiously  [carefully],  and  some  few  to  be  read 
wholly  and  with  diligence  and  attention.  Some  books 
also  may  be  read  by  deputy"  This  is  weighty  and 
well  said,  and  I  would  call  your  attention  especially 
to  the  wise  words  with  which  the  passage  closes.  The 
best  books  are  not  always  those  which  lend  themselves 
to  discussion  and  comment,  but  those  (like  Mon 
taigne's  Essays)  which  discuss  and  comment  our 
selves. 

I  have  been  speaking  of  such  books  as  should  be 

1  It  is  in  this  essay  that  the  reference  to  the  "full  man" 
occurs,  and  as  the  essay  is  not  long,  it  would  be  a  good  one  to 
commit  to  memory. 


298  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

chosen  for  profitable  reading.  A  public  library,  of 
course,  must  be  far  wider  in  its  scope.  It  should  con 
tain  something  for  all  tastes,  as  well  as  the  material 
for  a  thorough  grounding  in  all  branches  of  know 
ledge.  It  should  be  rich  in  books  of  reference,  in 
encyclopaedias,1  where  one  may  learn  without  cost  of 
research  what  things  are  generally  known.  For  it  is 
far  more  useful  to  know  these  than  to  know  those  that 
are  not  generally  known.  Not  to  know  them  is  the 
defect  of  those  half-trained  and  therefore  hasty  men 
who  find  a  mare's  nest  on  every  branch  of  the  tree  of 
knowledge.  A  library  should  contain  ample  stores  of 
history,  which,  if  it  do  not  always  deserve  the  pomp 
ous  title  which  Bolingbroke  gave  it,  of  philosophy 
teaching  by  example,2  certainly  teaches  many  things 
profitable  for  us  to  know  and  lay  to  heart ;  teaches, 
among  other  things,  how  much  of  the  present  is  still 
held  in  mortmain  by  the  past ;  teaches  that,  if  there 
be  no  controlling  purpose,  there  is,  at  least,  a  sternly 
logical  sequence  in  human  affairs,  and  that  chance  has 
but  a  trifling  dominion  over  them  ;  teaches  why  things 
are  and  must  be  so  and  not  otherwise,  and  that,  of  all 
hopeless  contests,  the  most  hopeless  is  that  which  fools 
are  most  eager  to  challenge,  —  with  the  Nature  of 
Things;  teaches,  perhaps  more  than  anything  else, 
the  value  of  personal  character  as  a  chief  factor  in 
what  used  to  be  called  destiny,  for  that  cause  is  strong 

1  A  capital  subject  for  discussion  would  be  on  the  compara 
tive  merits  of  the  many  encyclopaedias  to  be  found  in  a  good 
public  library  ;  not  to  determine  which  was  the  best,  but  what 
was  the  characteristic  of  each. 

2  There  is  another  suggestive  definition  of  history  made  by 
the  English  historian  E.  A.  Freeman,  and  used  as  a  motto  on 
the  title-page  of  the  various  Johns  Hopkins  University  Studies  in 
Historical  and  Political  Science. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  299 

which  has  not  a  multitude  but  one  strong  man  behind 
it.  History  is,  indeed,  mainly  the  biography  of  a  few 
imperial  men,  and  forces  home  upon  us  the  useful 
lesson  how  infinitesimally  important  our  own  private 
affairs  are  to  the  universe  in  general.  History  is 
clarified  experience,  and  yet  how  little  do  men  profit 
by  it ;  nay,  how  should  we  expect  it  of  those  who  so 
seldom  are  taught  anything  by  their  own !  Delusions, 
especially  economical  delusions,  seem  the  only  things 
that  have  any  chance  of  an  earthly  immortality.  I 
would  have  plenty  of  biography.  It  is  no  insignificant 
fact  that  eminent  men  have  always  loved  their  Plu 
tarch,  since  example,  whether  for  emulation  or  avoid 
ance,  is  never  so  poignant  as  when  presented  to  us  in 
a  striking  personality.  Autobiographies  are  also  in 
structive  reading  to  the  student  of  human  nature, 
though  generally  written,  by  men  who  are  more  inter 
esting  to  themselves  than  to  their  fellow-men.  I  have 
been  told  that  Emerson  and  George  Eliot  agreed  in 
thinking  Rousseau's  Confessions  the  most  interesting 
book  they  had  ever  read. 

A  public  library  should  also  have  many  and  full 
shelves  of  political  economy,  for  the  dismal  science, 
as  Carlyle  called  it,  if  it  prove  nothing  else,  will  go 
far  towards  proving  that  theory  is  the  bird  in  the 
bush,  though  she  sing  more  sweetly  than  the  night 
ingale,  and  that  the  millennium  will  not  hasten  its 
coming  in  deference  to  the  most  convincing  string  of 
resolutions  that  were  ever  unanimously  adopted  in 
public  meeting.  It  likewise  induces  in  us  a  profound 
and  wholesome  distrust  of  social  panaceas. 

I  would  have  a  public  library  abundant  in  transla 
tions  of  the  best  books  in  all  languages,  for,  though 
no  work  of  genius  can  be  adequately  translated,  be- 


300  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

cause  every  word  of  it  is  permeated  with  what  Milton 
calls  "  the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master  spirit "  which 
cannot  be  transfused  into  the  veins  of  the  best  trans 
lation,  yet  some  acquaintance  with  foreign  and  ancient 
literatures  has  the  liberalizing  effect  of  foreign  travel.1 
He  who  travels  by  translation  travels  more  hastily 
and  superficially,  but  brings  home  something  that  is 
worth  having,  nevertheless.  Translations  properly 
used,  by  shortening  the  labor  of  acquisition,  add  as 
many  years  to  our  lives  as  they  subtract  from  the  pro 
cesses  of  our  education.  Looked  at  from  any  but  the 
aesthetic  point  of  view,  translations  retain  whatever 
property  was  in  their  originals  to  enlarge,  liberalize, 
and  refine  the  mind.  At  the  same  time  I  would  have 
also  the  originals  of  these  translated  books,  as  a  temp 
tation  to  the  study  of  languages,  which  has  a  special 
use  and  importance  of  its  own  in  teaching  us  to  under 
stand  the  niceties  of  our  mother-tongue.  The  prac 
tice  of  translation,  by  making  us  deliberate  in  the 
choice  of  the  best  equivalent  of  the  foreign  word  in 
our  own  language,  has  likewise  the  advantage  of  con 
tinually  schooling  us  in  one  of  the  main  elements  of  a 
good  style,  —  precision  ;  and  precision  of  thought  is 
not  only  exemplified  by  precision  of  language,  but  is 
largely  dependent  on  the  habit  of  it. 

In  such  a  library  the  sciences  should  be  fully  repre 
sented,  that  men  may  at  least  learn  to  know  in  what 
a  marvellous  museum  they  live,  what  a  wonder-worker 
is  giving  them  an  exhibition  daily  for  nothing.  Nor 
let  Art  be  forgotten  in  all  its  many  forms,  not  as  the 
antithesis  of  Science,  but  as  her  elder  or  fairer  sister, 

1  Emerson,  in  his  essay  entitled  Books,  in  the  volume  Society 
fid  Solitude,  has  something  to  say  about  translations,  and  his 
remark  often  is  quoted. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  301 

whom  we  love  all  the  more  that  her  usefulness  cannot 
be  demonstrated  in  dollars  and  cents.  I  should  be 
thankful  if  every  day-laborer  among  us  could  have 
his  mind  illumined,  as  those  of  Athens  and  of  Flor 
ence  had,  with  some  image  of  what  is  best  in  archi 
tecture,  painting,  and  sculpture,  to  train  his  crude 
perceptions  and  perhaps  call  out  latent  faculties.  I 
should  like  to  see  the  works  of  Ruskin  within  the 
reach  of  every  artisan  among  us.  For  I  hope  some 
day  that  the  delicacy  of  touch  and  accuracy  of  eye 
that  have  made  our  mechanics  in  some  departments 
the  best  in  the  world,  may  give  us  the  same  supremacy 
in  works  of  wider  range  and  more  purely  ideal  scope. 

Voyages  and  travels  I  would  also  have,  good  store, 
especially  the  earlier,  when  the  world  was  fresh  and 
unhackneyed  and  men  saw  things  invisible  to  the 
modern  eye.  They  are  fast-sailing  ships  to  waft  away 
from  present  trouble  to  the  Fortunate  Isles. 

To  wash  down  the  drier  morsels  that  every  library 
must  necessarily  offer  at  its  board,  let  there  be  plenty 
of  imaginative  literature,  and  let  its  range  be  not 
too  narrow  to  stretch  from  Dante  to  the  elder  Dumas. 
The  world  of  the  imagination  is  not  the  world  of  ab 
straction  and  nonentity,  as  some  conceive,  but  a  world 
formed  out  of  chaos  by  a  sense  of  the  beauty  that  is 
in  man  and  the  earth  on  which  he  dwells.  It  is  the 
realm  of  Might-be,  our  haven  of  refuge  from  the  short 
comings  and  disillusions  of  life.  It  is,  to  quote  Spen 
ser,  who  knew  it  well,  — 

"  The  world's  sweet  inn  from  care  and  wearisome  turmoil." 

Do  we  believe,  then,  that  God  gave  us  in  mockery 
this  splendid  faculty  of  sympathy  with  things  that  are 


302  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

a  joy  forever  ? 1  For  my  part,  I  believe  that  the  love 
and  study  of  works  of  imagination  is  of  practical 
utility  in  a  country  so  profoundly  material  (or,  as  we 
like  to  call  it,  practical)  in  its  leading  tendencies  as 
ours.  The  hunger  after  purely  intellectual  delights, 
the  content  with  ideal  possessions,  cannot  but  be  good 
for  us  in  maintaining  a  wholesome  balance  of  the 
character  and  of  the  faculties.  I  for  one  shall  never 
be  persuaded  that  Shakespeare  left  a  less  useful  leg 
acy  to  his  countrymen  than  Watt.  We  hold  all  the 
deepest,  all  the  highest  satisfactions  of  life  as  tenants 
of  imagination.  Nature  will  keep  up  the  supply  of 
what  are  called  hard-headed  people  without  our  help, 
and,  if  it  come  to  that,  there  are  other  as  good  uses 
for  heads  as  at  the  end  of  battering  rams. 

I  know  that  there  are  many  excellent  people  who 
object  to  the  reading  of  novels  as  a  waste  of  time,  if 
not  as  otherwise  harmful.  But  I  think  they  are  try 
ing  to  outwit  nature,  who  is  sure  to  prove  cunninger 
than  they.  Look  at  children.  One  boy  shall  want  a 
chest  of  tools,  and  one  a  book,  and  of  those  who  want 
books  one  shall  ask  for  a  botany,  another  for  a  ro 
mance.  They  will  be  sure  to  get  what  they  want, 
and  we  are  doing  a  grave  wrong  to  their  morals  by 
driving  them  to  do  things  on  the  sly,  to  steal  that 
food  which  their  constitution  craves  and  which  is 
wholesome  for  them,  instead  of  having  it  freely  and 
frankly  given  them  as  the  wisest  possible  diet.  If 
we  cannot  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear,  so> 
neither  can  we  hope  to  succeed  with  the  opposite 
experiment.  But  we  may  spoil  the  silk  for  its  legiti 
mate  uses.  I  can  conceive  of  no  healthier  reading 

1  The  first  line  of  Keats's  poem  Endymion  suggested  this 
phrase. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  303 

for  a  boy,  or  girl  either,  than  Scott's  novels,  or 
Cooper's,  to  speak  only  of  the  dead.  I  have  found 
them  very  good  reading  at  least  for  one  young  man, 
for  one  middle-aged  man,  and  for  one  who  is  growing 
old.  No,  no  —  banish  the  Antiquary,  banish  Leather 
Stocking,  and  banish  all  the  world ! 1  Let  us  not  go 
about  to  make  life  duller  than  it  is. 

But  I  must  shut  the  doors  of  iny  imaginary  library 
or  I  shall  never  end.  It  is  left  for  me  to  say  a  few 
words  of  cordial  acknowledgment  to  Mr.  Fitz  for  his 
judicious  and  generous  gift.  I  have  great  pleasure 
in  believing  that  the  custom  of  giving  away  money 
during  their  lifetime  (and  there  is  nothing  harder  for 
most  men  to  part  with,  except  prejudice)  is  more  com 
mon  with  Americans  than  with  any  other  people. 
It  is  a  still  greater  pleasure  to  see  that  the  favorite 
direction  of  their  beneficence  is  towards  the  founding 
of  colleges  and  libraries.  My  observation  has  led  me 
to  believe  that  there  is  no  country  in  which  wealth  is 
so  sensible  of  its  obligations  as  our  own.  And,  as 
most  of  our  rich  men  have  risen  from  the  ranks,  may 
we  not  fairly  attribute  this  sympathy  with  their  kind 
to  the  benign  influence  of  democracy  rightly  under 
stood?  My  dear  and  honored  friend,  George  Wil 
liam  Curtis,  told  me  that  he  was  sitting  in  front  of 
the  late  Mr.  Ezra  Cornell  in  a  convention,  where  one 
of  the  speakers  made  a  Latin  quotation.  Mr.  Cornell 
leaned  forward  and  asked  for  a  translation  of  it, 
which  Mr.  Curtis  gave  him.  Mr.  Cornell  thanked 
him,  and  added,  "  If  I  can  help  it,  no  young  man 
shall  grow  up  in  New  York  hereafter  without  the 

1  In  Shakespeare's  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  I.,  Act  II.  sc.  4,  will 
be  found  the  phrase  which  was  in  Mr.  Lowell's  mind  when  he 
wrote  this. 


304  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

chance,  at  least,  of  knowing  what  a  Latin  quotation 
means  when  he  hears  it."  This  was  the  germ  of 
Cornell  University,1  and  it  found  food  for  its  roots  in 
that  sympathy  and  thoughtfulness  for  others  of  which 
I  just  spoke.  This  is  the  healthy  side  of  that  good 
nature  which  democracy  tends  to  foster,  and  which  is 
so  often  harmful  when  it  has  its  root  in  indolence 
or  indifference  ;  especially  harmful  where  our  public 
affairs  are  concerned,  and  where  it  is  easiest,  because 
there  we  are  giving  away  what  belongs  to  other  peo 
ple.  It  should  be  said,  however,  that  in  this  country 
it  is  as  laudably  easy  to  procure  signatures  to  a  sub 
scription  paper  as  it  is  shamefully  so  to  obtain  them 
for  certificates  of  character  and  recommendations  to 
office.  And  is  not  this  public  spirit  a  national  evolu 
tion  from  that  frame  of  mind  in  which  New  England 
was  colonized,  and  which  found  expression  in  these 
grave  words  of  Robinson  and  Brewster,2  "  We  are 
knit  together  as  a  body  in  a  most  strict  and  sacred 
bond  and  covenant  of  the  Lord,  of  the  violation  of 
which  we  make  great  conscience,  and  by  virtue 
whereof  we  hold  ourselves  strictly  tied  to  all  care  of 
each  other's  good  and  of  the  whole  "  ?  Let  us  never 
forget  the  deep  and  solemn  import  of  these  words. 
The  problem  before  us  is  to  make  a  whole  of  our 
many  discordant  parts,  our  many  foreign  elements; 
and  I  know  of  no  way  in  which  this  can  better  be 
done  than  by  providing  a  common  system  of  educa 
tion,  and  a  common  door  of  access  to  the  best  books 
by  which  that  education  may  be  continued,  broadened, 

1  The  motto  about  the  seal  of  Cornell  University  indicates 
Mr.  Cornell's  conception  of  that  institution. 

2  In  a  letter  signed  jointly  by  them  to  Sir  Edwin  Sandys,  to 
be  found  in  Bradford's  History  of  Plymouth  Plantation,  page  20. 


BOOKS  AND  LIBRARIES.  305 

and  made  fruitful.  For  it  is  certain  that,  whatever 
we  do  or  leave  undone,  those  discordant  parts  and 
foreign  elements  are  to  be,  whether  we  will  or  no, 
members  of  that  body  which  Robinson  and  Brewster 
had  in  mind,  bone  of  our  bone,  and  flesh  of  our  flesh, 
for  good  or  ill.  I  am  happy  in  believing  that  demo 
cracy  has  enough  vigor  of  constitution  to  assimilate 
these  seemingly  indigestible  morsels,  and  transmute 
them  into  strength  of  muscle  and  symmetry  of  limb.1 

There  is  no  way  in  which  a  man  can  build  so  secure 
and  lasting  a  monument  for  himself  as  in  a  public 
library.  Upon  that  he  may  confidently  allow  "  Re- 
surgam " 2  to  be  carved,  for,  through  his  good  deed, 
he  will  rise  again  in  the  grateful  remembrance  and  in 
the  lifted  and  broadened  minds  and  fortified  characters 
of  generation  after  generation.  The  pyramids  may 
forget  their  builders,  but  memorials  such  as  this  have 
longer  memories. 

Mr.  Fitz  has  done  his  part  in  providing  your  library 
with  a  dwelling.  It  will  be  for  the  citizens  of  Chelsea 
to  provide  it  with  worthy  habitants.  So  shall  they, 
too,  have  a  share  in  the  noble  eulogy  of  the  ancient 
wise  man :  "  The  teachers  shall  shine  as  the  firmament, 
and  they  that  turn  many  to  righteousness  as  the  stars 
forever  and  ever." 

1  For  a  fuller  statement  of  Mr.  Lowell's  faith,  see  his  address 
Democracy. 

2  This  Latin  word,  "  I  shall  rise  again,"  reappears  in  the  word 
resurrection. 


HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 


INTRODUCTION. 

THERE  died  at  Concord,  Massachusetts,  in  the  year  1862, 
a  man  of  forty-five  who,  if  one  were  to  take  his  word  for  it, 
need  never  have  gone  out  of  the  little  village  of  Concord  to 
see  all  that  was  worth  seeing  in  the  world.  Lowell,  in  his 
My  Garden  Acquaintance,  reminds  the  reader  of  Gilbert 
White,  who,  in  his  Natural  History  of  Selborne,  gave  mi 
nute  details  of  a  lively  world  found  within  the  borders  of  a 
little  English  parish.  Alphonse  Karr,  a  French  writer,  has 
written  a  book  which  contracts  the  limit  still  further  in 
A  Journey  round  my  Garden,  but  neither  of  these  writers 
so  completely  isolated  himself  from  the  outside  world  as 
did  Thoreau,  who  had  a  collegiate  education  at  Harvard, 
made  short  journeys  to  Cape  Cod,  Maine,  and  Canada, 
acted  for  a  little  while  as  tutor  in  a  family  on  Staten  Island, 
but  spent  the  best  part  of  his  life  as  a  looker-on  in  Concord, 
and  during  two  years  of  the  time  lived  a  hermit  on  the 
shores  of  Walden  Pond.  He  made  his  living,  as  the  phrase 
goes,  by  the  occupation  of  a  land  surveyor,  but  he  followed 
the  profession  only  when  it  suited  his  convenience.  He  did 
not  marry ;  he  never  went  to  church ;  he  never  voted ;  he 
refused  to  pay  taxes  ;  he  sought  no  society ;  he  declined 
companions  when  they  were  in  his  way,  and,  when  he  had 
anything  to  say  in  public,  went  about  from  door  to  door  and 
invited  people  to  come  to  a  hall  to  hear  him  deliver  his 
word. 

That  he  had  something  to  say  to  the  world  at  large  is 


INTRODUCTION.  307 

made  pretty  evident  by  the  books  which  he  left,  and  it  ia 
intimated  that  the  unpublished  records  of  his  observation 
and  reflection  are  very  extensive.  Thus  far  his  published 
writings  are  contained  in  ten  volumes.  The  first  in  appear 
ance  was  A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack  Rivers. 
It  was  published  in  1849  and  built  upon  the  adventures  of 
himself  and  brother  ten  years  before,  when,  in  a  boat  of 
their  own  construction,  they  had  made  their  way  from  Con 
cord  down  the  Concord  River  to  the  Merrimack,  up  that  to 
its  source,  and  back  to  the  starting  point.  It  will  readily 
be  seen  that  such  an  excursion  would  not  yield  a  bookful  of 
observation,  and  though  Thoreau  notes  in  it  many  trivial 
incidents,  a  great  part  of  the  contents  is  in  the  reflections 
which  he  makes  from  day  to  day.  He  comes  to  the  little 
river  with  its  sparse  border  of  population  and  meagre  his 
tory,  and  insists  upon  measuring  antiquity  and  fame  by  it. 
All  of  his  reading  he  tests  by  the  measure  of  this  stream, 
and  undertakes  to  show  that  the  terms  "  big  "  and  "  little  "  are 
very  much  misapplied,  and  that  here  on  this  miniature  scale 
one  may  read  all  that  is  worth  knowing  in  life.  His  voy 
age  is  treated  with  the  gravity  which  one  might  use  in  re 
cording  a  journey  to  find  the  sources  of  the  Nile. 

Between  the  date  of  the  journey  and  the  publication  of 
the  book,  Thoreau  was  engaged  upon  an  experiment  still 
more  illustrative  of  his  creed  of  individuality.  In  1845  he 
built  a  hut  in  the  woods  by  Walden  Pond,  and  for  two 
years  lived  a  self-contained  life  there.  It  was  not  alto 
gether  a  lonely  life.  He  was  within  easy  walking  distance 
of  Concord  village,  and  the  novelty  of  his  housekeeping  at 
tracted  many  visitors,  while  his  friends  who  valued  his  con 
versation  sought  him  out  in  his  hermitage.  Besides  and 
beyond  this  Thoreau  had  a  genius  for  intercourse  with 
humbler  companions.  There  have  been  few  instances  in 
history  of  such  perfect  understanding  as  existed  between 
him  and  the  lower  orders  of  creation.  It  has  been  said  of 
him :  "  Every  fact  which  occurs  in  the  bed  [of  the  Concord 


308  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

River],  on  the  banks,  or  in  the  air  over  it ;  the  fishes,  and 
their  spawning  and  nests,  their  manners,  their  food ;  the 
shad-flies  which  fill  the  air  on  a  certain  evening  once  a  year, 
and  which  are  snapped  at  by  the  fishes  so  ravenously  that 
many  of  these  die  of  repletion;  the  conical  heaps  of  small 
stones  on  the  river-shallows,  one  of  which  heaps  will  some 
times  overfill  a  cart,  —  these  heaps  the  huge  nests  of  small 
fishes  ;  the  birds  which  frequent  the  stream,  heron,  duck, 
sheldrake,  loon,  osprey ;  the  snake,  muskrat,  otter,  wood- 
chuck,  and  fox  on  the  banks ;  the  turtle,  frog,  hyla,  and 
cricket  which  made  the  banks  vocal,  —  were  all  known  to 
him,  and,  as  it  were,  townsmen  and  fellow-creatures.  .  .  . 
His  power  of  observation  seemed  to  indicate  additional 
senses.  He  saw  as  with  microscrope,  heard  as  with  ear- 
trumpet,  and  his  memory  was  a  photographic  register  of 
all  he  saw  and  heard.  .  .  .  His  intimacy  with  animals  sug 
gested  what  Thomas  Fuller  records  of  Butler  the  apiolo- 
gist,  that  '  either  he  had  told  the  bees  things  or  the  bees 
had  told  him  ;  '  snakes  coiled  round  his  leg  ;  the  fishes  swam 
into  his  hand,  and  he  took  them  out  of  the  water  ;  he  pulled 
the  woodchuck  out  of  its  hole  by  the  tail,  and  took  the 
foxes  under  his  protection  from  the  hunters."  3 

Walden,  published  in  1854,  is  the  record  of  Thoreau's 
life  in  the  woods,  and  inasmuch  as  that  life  was  not  ex 
hausted  in  the  bare  provision  against  bodily  wants,  nor  in 
the  observation  even  of  what  lay  under  the  eye  and  ear,  but 
was  busied  about  the  questions  which  perplex  all  who  would 
give  an  account  of  themselves,  the  record  mingles  common 
fact  and  personal  experience,  the  world  without  and  the 
world  within.  Thoreau  records  what  he  sees  and  hears  in 
the  woods,  but  these  sights  and  sounds  are  the  texts  for 
sermons  upon  human  life.  He  undertook  to  get  at  the  ele 
mentary  conditions  of  living,  and  to  strip  himself  as  far  as 
he  could  of  all  that  was  unnecessary.  In  doing  this  he  dis 
covered  many  curious  and  ingenious  things,  and  the  unique 
1  Emerson's  Biographical  Sketch. 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  309 

method  which  he  took  was  pretty  sure  to  give  him  glimpses 
of  life  not  seen  by  others.  But  the  method  had  its  disad 
vantages,  and  chiefly  this,  that  it  was  against  tha  common 
order  of  things,  and  therefore  the  results  reached  could  not 
be  relied  upon  as  sound  and  wholesome. 

The  great  value  of  Walden,  and  indeed  of  all  Thoreau's 
books,  is  not  in  the  philosophy,  which  is  often  shrewd  and 
often  strained  and  arbitrary,  but  in  the  disclosure  made  of 
the  common  facts  of  the  world  about  one.  He  used  to  say, 
"  I  think  nothing  is  to  be  hoped  from  you,  if  this  bit  of 
mould  under  your  feet  is  not  sweeter  to  you  to  eat  than  any 
other  in  this  world,  or  in  any  world  ; "  and  the  whole  drift 
of  his  writing  is  toward  the  development  of  the  individual 
in  the  place  where  he  happens  to  be.  Thoreau's  protesting 
attitude,  and  the  stout  resistance  which  he  made  to  all  in 
fluences  about  him  except  the  common  ones  of  nature,  be 
tray  themselves  in  the  style  of  his  writing.  He  has  a  way, 
almost  insolent,  of  throwing  out  his  thoughts,  and  growling 
forth  his  objections  to  the  conventions  of  life,  which  ren 
ders  his  writing  often  crabbed  and  inartistic.  There  is  a 
rudeness  which  seems  sometimes  affected,  and  a  carelessness 
which  is  contemptuous.  Yet  often  his  indifference  to  style 
is  a  rugged  insistence  on  the  strongest  thought,  and  in  his 
effort  to  express  himself  unreservedly  he  reaches  a  force 
and  energy  which  are  refreshing. 

A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack  Rivers  and 
Walden  were  the  only  writings  of  Thoreau  published  in 
his  lifetime.  He  printed  contributions  to  the  magazines 
from  time  to  time,  and  out  of  these  and  his  manuscripts 
have  been  gathered  eight  other  volumes,  Excursions  in  Field 
and  Forest,  The  Maine  Woods,  Cape  Cod,  Letters  to  Va 
rious  Persons,  A  Yankee  in  Canada,  Early  Spring  in 
Massachusetts,  Summer,  and  Winter.  To  Excursions  was 
prefixed  a  biographical  sketch  by  R.  W.  Emerson,  which 
gives  one  a  very  vivid  portrait  of  this  unique  man.  Cape 
Cod,  which  is  the  record  of  a  walk  taken  the  length  of  the 


310  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

Cape,  and  Walden  are  likely  to  remain  as  the  most  finished 
and  agreeable  of  Thoreau's  books.  All  of  his  writings, 
however,  will  be  searched  for  the  evidence  which  they  give 
of  a  mind  singular  for  its  independence,  its  resolute  con 
fronting  of  the  problems  of  life,  its  insight  into  nature,  its 
isolation,  and  its  waywardness. 

The  first  two  papers  which  follow  are  from   Walden  j 
the  third  is  from  Cape  Cod, 


SOUNDS. 

I  DID  not  read  books  the  first  summer;  I  hoed 
beans.  Nay,  I  often  did  better  than  this.  There 
were  times  when  I  could  not  afford  to  sacrifice  the 
bloom  of  the  present  moment  to  any  work,  whether  of 
the  head  or  hands.  I  love  a  broad  margin  to  my  life. 
Sometimes,  in  a  summer  morning,  having  taken  my 
accustomed  bath,  I  sat  in  my  sunny  doorway  from 
sunrise  till  noon,  rapt  in  a  revery,  amidst  the  pines 
and  hickories  and  sumachs,  in  undisturbed  solitude  and 
stillness,  while  the  birds  sang  around  or  flitted  noise 
less  through  the  house,  until  by  the  sun  falling  in  at 
my  west  window,  or  the  noise  of  some  traveller's 
wagon  on  the  distant  highway,  I  was  reminded  of  the 
lapse  of  time.  I  grew  in  those  seasons  like  corn  in 
the  night,  and  they  were  far  better  than  any  work  of 
the  hands  would  have  been.  They  were  not  time  sub 
tracted  from  my  life,  but  so  much  over  and  above  my 
usual  allowance.  I  realized  what  the  Orientals  mean 
by  contemplation  and  the  forsaking  of  works.  For 
the  most  part  I  minded  not  how  the  hours  went.  The 
day  advanced  as  if  to  light  some  work  of  mine ;  it 
was  morning,  and  lo,  now  it  is  evening,  and  nothing 
memorable  is  accomplished.  Instead  of  singing  like 
the  birds,  I  silently  smiled  at  my  incessant  good  for- 
tune.  As  the  sparrow  had  its  trill,  sitting  on  the 
hickory  before  my  door,  so  had  I  my  chuckle  or  sup- 


312  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

pressed  warble  which  he  might  hear  out  of  my  nest. 
My  days  were  not  days  of  the  week,  bearing  the 
stamp  of  any  heathen  deity,  nor  were  they  minced  into 
hours  and  fretted  by  the  ticking  of  a  clock ;  for  I  live 
like  the  Puri  Indians,  of  whom  it  is  said  that  "for 
yesterday,  to-day,  and  to-morrow  they  have  only  one 
word,  and  they  express  the  variety  of  meaning  by 
pointing  backward  for  yesterday,  forward  for  to-mor 
row,  and  overhead  for  the  passing  day."  This  was 
sheer  idleness  to  my  fellow-townsmen,  no  doubt ;  but 
if  the  birds  and  flowers  had  tried  me  by  their  stand 
ard,  I  should  not  have  been  found  wanting.  A  man 
must  find  his  occasions  in  himself,  it  is  true.  The  nat 
ural  day  is  very  calm,  and  will  hardly  reprove  his 
indolence. 

I  had  this  advantage,  at  least,  in  my  mode  of  life 
over  those  who  were  obliged  to  look  abroad  for  amuse 
ment,  to  society  and  the  theatre,  that  my  life  itself 
was  become  my  amusement  and  never  ceased  to  be 
novel.  It  was  a  drama  of  many  scenes  and  without 
an  end.  If  we  were  always  indeed  getting  our  living, 
and  regulating  our  lives  according  to  the  last  and  best 
mode  we  had  learned,  we  should  never  be  troubled 
with  ennui.  Follow  your  genius  closely  enough  and 
it  will  not  fail  to  show  you  a  fresh  prospect  every 
hour.  Housework  was  a  pleasant  pastime.  When 
my  floor  was  dirty,  I  rose  early,  and,  setting  all  my 
furniture  out  of  doors  on  the  grass,  bed  and  bedstead 
making  but  one  budget,  dashed  water  on  the  floor, 
and  sprinkled  white  sand  from  the  pond  on  it,  and 
then  with  a  broom  scrubbed  it  clean  and  white ;  and  by 
the  time  the  villagers  had  broken  their  fast,  the  morn- 
ing  sun  had  dried  my  house  sufficiently  to  allow  me  to 
move  in  again,  and  my  meditations  were  almost  unin- 


SOUNDS.  313 

terrupted.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  my  whole  household 
effects  out  on  the  grass,  making  a  little  pile  like  a 
gypsy's  pack,  and  my  three-legged  table,  from  which 
I  did  not  remove  the  books  and  pen  and  ink,  standing 
amid  the  pines  and  hickories.  They  seemed  glad  to 
get  out  themselves,  and  as  if  unwilling  to  be  brought 
in.  I  was  sometimes  tempted  to  stretch  an  awning 
over  them  and  take  my  seat  there.  It  was  worth  the 
while  to  see  the  sun  shine  on  these  things,  and  hear 
the  free  wind  blow  on  them  ;  so  much  more  interest 
ing  most  familiar  objects  look  out  of  doors  than  in  the 
house.  A  bird  sits  on  the  next  bough,  life-everlast 
ing  grows  under  the  table,  and  blackberry  vines  run 
round  its  legs  ;  pine  cones,  chestnut  burs,  and  straw 
berry  leaves  are  strewn  about.  It  looked  as  if  this 
was  the  way  these  forms  came  to  be  transferred  to  our 
furniture,  to  tables,  chairs,  and  bedsteads,  —  because 
they  once  stood  in  the  midst  of  them. 

My  house  was  011  the  side  of  a  hill,  immediately  on 
the  edge  of  the  larger  wood,  in  the  midst  of  a  young 
forest  of  pitch-pines  and  hickories,  and  half  a  dozen 
rods  from  the  pond,  to  which  a  narrow  footpath  led 
down  the  hill.  In  my  front  yard  grew  the  straw 
berry,  blackberry,  and  life-everlasting,  johnswort  and 
goldenrod,  shrub-oaks  and  sand-cherry,  blueberry  and 
groundnut.  Near  the  end  of  May,  the  sand-cherry 
(cerasus  piimila)  adorned  the  sides  of  the  path  with 
its  delicate  flowers  arranged  in  umbels  cylindrically 
about  its  short  stems,  which  last,  in  the  fall,  weighed 
down  with  good-sized  and  handsome  cherries,  fell 
over  in  wreaths  like  rays  on  every  side.  I  tasted 
them  out  of  compliment  to  Nature,  though  they  were 
scarcely  palatable.  The  sumach  (rhus  glabra)  grew 
luxuriantly  about  the  house,  pushing  up  through  the 


314  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

embankment  which  I  had  made,  and  growing  five  or 
six  feet  the  first  season.  Its  broad,  pinnate,  tropical 
leaf  was  pleasant  though  strange  to  look  on.  The 
large  buds,  suddenly  pushing  out  late  in  the  spring 
from  dry  sticks  which  had  seemed  to  be  dead,  devel 
oped  themselves  as  by  magic  into  graceful  green  and 
tender  boughs,  an  inch  in  diameter ;  and  sometimes, 
as  I  sat  at  my  window,  so  heedlessly  did  they  grow 
and  tax  their  weak  joints,  I  heard  a  fresh  and  tender 
bough  suddenly  fall  like  a  fan  to  the  ground,  when 
there  was  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring,  broken  off  by 
its  own  weight.  In  August,  the  large  masses  of  ber 
ries,  which,  when  in  flower,  had  attracted  many  wild 
bees,  gradually  assumed  their  bright,  velvety,  crimson 
hue,  and  by  their  weight  again  bent  down  and  broke 
the  tender  limbs. 

As  I  sit  at  my  window  this  summer  afternoon, 
hawks  are  circling  about  my  clearing ;  the  tantivy  of 
wild  pigeons,  flying  by  twos  and  threes  athwart  my 
view,  or  perching  restless  on  the  white  pine  boughs 
behind  my  house,  gives  a  voice  to  the  air  ;  a  fishhawk 
dimples  the  glassy  surface  of  the  pond  and  brings  up 
a  fish  ;  a  mink  steals  out  of  the  marsh  before  my  door 
and  seizes  a  frog  by  the  shore  ;  the  sedge  is  bending 
under  the  weight  of  the  reed-birds  flitting  hither  and 
thither ;  and  for  the  last  half  hour  I  have  heard  the 
rattle  of  railroad  cars,  now  dying  away  and  then 
reviving  like  the  beat  of  a  partridge,  conveying  travel 
lers  from  Boston  to  the  country.  For  I  did  not  live 
so  out  of  the  world  as  that  boy,  who,  as  I  hear,  was 
put  out  to  a  farmer  in  the  east  part  of  the  town,  but 
ere  long  ran  away  and  came  home  again,  quite  down 
at  the  heel  and  homesick.  He  had  never  seen  such  a 
dull  and  out-of-the-way  place  ;  the  folks  were  all  gone 


SOUNDS.  815 

off ;  why,  you  could  n't  even  hear  the  whistle !  I 
doubt  if  there  is  such  a  place  in  Massachusetts 
now :  — 

"  In  truth,  our  village  has  become  a  butt 
For  one  of  those  fleet  railroad  shafts,  and  o'er 
Our  peaceful  plain  its  soothing  sound  is  —  Concord." 

The  Fitchburg  Railroad  touches  the  pond  about  a 
hundred  rods  south  of  where  I  dwell.  I  usually  go  to 
the  village  along  its  causeway,  and  am,  as  it  were, 
related  to  society  by  this  link.  The  men  on  the 
freight  trains,  who  go  over  the  whole  length  of  the 
road,  bow  to  me  as  to  an  old  acquaintance,  they  pass 
me  so  often,  and  apparently  they  take  me  for  an 
employee ;  and  so  I  am.  I  too  would  fain  be  a  track- 
repairer  somewhere  in  the  orbit  of  the  earth. 

The  whistle  of  the  locomotive  penetrates  my  woods 
summer  and  winter,  sounding  like  the  scream  of  a 
hawk  sailing  over  some  farmer's  yard,  informing  me 
that  many  restless  city  merchants  are  arriving  within 
the  circle  of  the  town,  or  adventurous  country  traders 
from  the  other  side.  As  they  come  under  one  hori 
zon,  they  shout  their  warning  to  get  off  the  track  to 
the  other,  heard  sometimes  through  the  circles  of  two 
towns.  Here  come  your  groceries,  country ;  your 
rations,  countrymen  !  Nor  is  there  any  man  so  inde 
pendent  on  his  farm  that  he  can  say  them  nay.  And 
here  's  your  pay  for  them  !  screams  the  countryman's 
whistle  ;  timber  like  long  battering  rams  going  twenty 
miles  an  hour  against  the  city's  walls,  and  chairs 
enough  to  seat  all  the  weary  and  heavy  laden  that 
dwell  within  them.  With  such  huge  and  lumbering 
civility  the  country  hands  a  chair  to  the  city.  All  the 
Indian  huckleberry  hills  are  stripped,  all  the  cran 
berry  meadows  are  raked  into  the  city.  Up  comes  the 


316  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

cotton,  down  goes  the  woven  cloth  ;  up  comes  the  silk, 
down  goes  the  woollen ;  up  come  the  books,  but  down 
goes  the  wit  that  writes  them. 

When  I  meet  the  engine  with  its  train  of  cars  mov 
ing  off  with  planetary  motion,  —  or,  rather,  like  a 
comet,  for  the  beholder  knows  not  if  with  that  velocity 
and  with  that  direction  it  will  ever  revisit  this  system, 
since  its  orbit  does  not  look  like  a  returning  curve,  — 
with  its  steam  cloud  like  a  banner  streaming  behind 
in  golden  and  silver  wreaths,  like  many  a  downy 
cloud  which  I  have  seen,  high  in  the  heavens,  unfold 
ing  its  masses  to  the  light,  —  as  if  this  travelling 
demigod,  this  cloud-compeller,  would  ere  long  take  the 
sunset  sky  for  the  livery  of  his  train ;  when  I  hear 
the  iron  horse  make  the  hills  echo  with  his  snort  like 
thunder,  shaking  the  earth  with  his  feet,  and  breath 
ing  fire  and  smoke  from  his  nostrils  (what  kind  of 
winged  horse  or  fiery  dragon  they  will  put  into  the 
new  Mythology  I  don't  know),  it  seems  as  if  the  earth 
had  got  a  race  now  worthy  to  inhabit  it.  If  all  were 
as  it  seems,  and  men  made  the  elements  their  servants 
for  noble  ends !  If  the  cloud  that  hangs  over  the 
engine  were  the  perspiration  of  heroic  deeds,  or  as 
beneficent  as  that  which  floats  over  the  farmer's  fields, 
then  the  elements  and  Nature  herself  would  cheerfully 
accompany  men  ou  their  errands  and  be  their  escort. 

I  watch  the  passage  of  the  morning  cars  with  the 
same  feeling  that  I  do  the  rising  of  the  sun,  which  is 
hardly  more  regular.  Their  train  of  clouds  stretching 
far  behind  and  rising  higher  and  higher,  going  to  hea 
ven  while  the  cars  are  going  to  Boston,  conceals  the 
sun  for  a  minute  and  casts  my  distant  field  into  the 
shade,  a  celestial  train  beside  which  the  petty  train  of 
cars  which  hugs  the  earth  is  but  the  barb  of  the  spear. 


SOUNDS.  317 

The  stabler  of  the  iron  horse  was  up  early  this  winter 
morning  by  the  light  of  the  stars  amid  the  mountains, 
to  fodder  and  harness  his  steed.  Fire,  too,  was 
awakened  thus  early  to  put  the  vital  heat  in  him  and 
get  him  off.  If  the  enterprise  were  as  innocent  as  it  is 
early !  If  the  snow  lies  deep  they  strap  on  his  snow- 
shoes,  and  with  the  giant  plough  plough  a  furrow  from 
the  mountains  to  the  seaboard,  in  which  the  cars,  like 
a  following  drill-barrow,  sprinkle  all  the  restless  men 
and  floating  merchandise  in  the  country  for  seed.  All 
day  the  fire  steed  flies  over  the  country,  stopping  only 
that  his  master  may  rest,  and  I  am  awakened  by  his 
tramp  and  defiant  snort  at  midnight,  when  in  some 
remote  glen  in  the  woods  he  fronts  the  elements  in 
cased  in  ice  and  snow ;  and  he  will  reach  his  stall 
only  with  the  morning  star,  to  start  once  more  on  his 
travels  without  rest  or  slumber.  Or,  perchance,  at 
evening,  I  hear  him  in  his  stable  blowing  off  the 
superfluous  energy  of  the  day,  that  he  may  calm  his 
nerves  and  cool  his  liver  and  brain  for  a  few  hours  of 
iron  slumber.  If  the  enterprise  were  as  heroic  and 
commanding  as  it  is  protracted  and  unwearied ! 

Far  through  unfrequented  woods  on  the  confines  of 
towns,  where  once  only  the  hunter  penetrated  by  day, 
in  the  darkest  night  dart  these  bright  saloons  without 
the  knowledge  of  their  inhabitants ;  this  moment 
stopping  at  some  brilliant  station-house  in  town  or 
city,  where  a  social  crowd  is  gathered,  the  next  in  the 
Dismal  Swamp,  scaring  the  owl  and  fox.  The  start- 
ings  and  arrivals  of  the  cars  are  now  the  epochs  in  the 
village  day.  They  go  and  come  with  such  regularity 
and  precision,  and  their  whistle  can  be  heard  so  far, 
that  the  farmers  set  their  clocks  by  them,  and  thus 
one  well-conducted  institution  regulates  a  whole  coun- 


318  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

try.  Have  not  men  improved  somewhat  in  punctual 
ity  since  the  railroad  was  invented  ?  Do  they  not  talk 
and  think  faster  in  the  depot  than  they  did  in  the 
stage-office  ?  There  is  something  electrifying  in  the 
atmosphere  of  the  former  place.  I  have  been  aston 
ished  at  the  miracles  it  has  wrought ;  that  some  of 
my  neighbors  who,  I  should  have  prophesied,  once  for 
all,  would  never  get  to  Boston  by  so  prompt  a  convey 
ance,  are  on  hand  when  the  bell  rings.  To  do  things 
"  railroad  fashion "  is  now  the  by-word :  and  it  is 
worth  the  while  to  be  warned  so  often  and  so  sincerely 
by  any  power  to  get  off  its  track.  There  is  no  stop 
ping  to  read  the  riot  act,  no  firing  over  the  heads  of 
the  mob,  in  this  case.  We  have  constructed  a  fate,  an 
Atropos,1  that  never  turns  aside.  (Let  that  be  the 
name  of  your  engine.)  Men  are  advertised  that  at  a 
certain  hour  and  minute  these  bolts  will  be  shot  to 
ward  particular  points  of  the  compass ;  yet  it  inter 
feres  with  no  man's  business,  and  the  children  go  to 
school  on  the  other  track.  We  live  the  steadier  for 
it.  We  are  all  educated  thus  to  be  sons  of  Tell.  The 
air  is  full  of  invisible  bolts.  Every  path  but  your 
own  is  the  path  of  fate.  Keep  on  your  own  track, 
then. 

What  recommends  commerce  to  me  is  its  enterprise 
and  bravery.  It  does  not  clasp  its  hands  and  pray  to 
Jupiter.  I  see  these  men  every  day  go  about  their 
business  with  more  or  less  courage  and  content,  doing 
more  even  than  they  suspect,  and  perchance  better 
employed  than  they  could  have  consciously  devised. 

1  In  the  classic  mythology  there  were  three  Fates  who  pre 
sided  over  the  life  and  death  of  mankind  :  Clotho,  that  spun  the 
thread  of  birth,  Lachesis,  that  measured  it,  and  Atropos,  the 
inflexible  Fate  that  cut  it  off. 


SOUNDS.  319 

I  am  less  affected  by  their  heroism  who  stood  up  for 
half  an  hour  in  the  front  line  at  Buena  Vista,  than  by 
the  steady  and  cheerful  valor  of  the  men  who  inhabit 
the  snow-plough  for  their  winter  quarters ;  who  have 
not  merely  the  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  courage, 
which  Bonaparte  thought  was  the  rarest,  but  whose 
courage  does  not  go  to  rest  so  early,  who  go  to  sleep 
only  when  the  storm  sleeps  or  the  sinews  of  their  iron 
steed  are  frozen.  On  this  morning  of  the  Great 
Snow,  perchance,  which  is  still  raging  and  chilling 
men's  blood,  I  hear  the  muffled  tone  of  their  engine 
bell  from  out  the  fog  bank  of  their  chilled  breath, 
which  announces  that  the  cars  are  coming,  without 
long  delay,  notwithstanding  the  veto  of  a  New  Eng 
land  northeast  snow-storm,  and  I  behold  the  plough 
men  covered  with  snow  and  rime,  their  heads  peering 
above  the  mould-board  which  is  turning  down  other 
than  daisies  and  the  nests  of  field-mice,  like  bowlders 
of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  that  occupy  an  outside  place  in. 
the  universe. 

Commerce  is  unexpectedly  confident  and  serene, 
alert,  adventurous,  and  unwearied.  It  is  very  natural 
in  its  methods  withal,  far  more  so  than  many  fantastic 
enterprises  and  sentimental  experiments,  and  hence  its 
singular  success.  I  am  refreshed  and  expanded  when 
the  freight  train  rattles  past  me,  and  I  smell  the 
stores  which  go  dispensing  their  odors  all  the  way 
from  Long  Wharf  to  Lake  Champlain,  reminding  me 
of  foreign  parts,  of  coral  reefs,  and  Indian  oceans,  and 
tropical  climes,  and  the  extent  of  the  globe.  I  feel  more 
like  a  citizen  of  the  world  at  the  sight  of  the  palm  leaf 
which  will  cover  so  many  flaxen  New  England  heads 
the  next  summer,  the  Manilla  hemp  and  cocoa-nut 
husks,  the  old  junk,  gunny  bags,  scrap  iron,  and  rusty 


320  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

nails.  This  car-load  of  torn  sails  is  more  legible  and 
interesting  now  than  if  they  should  be  wrought  into 
paper  and  printed  books.  Who  can  write  so  graphi 
cally  the  history  of  the  storms  they  have  weathered  as 
these  rents  have  done  ?  They  are  proof-sheets  which 
need  no  correction.  Here  goes  lumber  from  the 
Maine  woods,  which  did  not  go  out  to  sea  in  the  last 
freshet,  risen  four  dollars  on  the  thousand  because  of 
what  did  go  out  or  was  split  up  ;  pine,  spruce,  cedar,  — 
first,  second,  third,  and  fourth  qualities,  so  lately  all  of 
one  quality,  to  wave  over  the  bear  and  moose  and  cari 
bou.  Next  rolls  Thomaston  lime,  a  prime  lot,  which 
will  get  far  among  the  hills  before  it  gets  slacked. 
These  rags  in  bales  of  all  hues  and  qualities,  the 
lowest  condition  to  which  cotton  and  linen  descend, 
the  final  result  of  dress,  —  of  patterns  which  are  now 
no  longer  cried  up,  unless  it  be  in  Milwaukee,  as 
those  splendid  articles,  English,  French,  or  American 
prints,  ginghams,  muslins,  etc.,  —  gathered  from  all 
quarters  both  of  fashion  and  poverty,  going  to  become 
paper  of  one  color  or  a  few  shades  only,  on  which  for 
sooth  will  be  written  tales  of  real  life,  high  and  low, 
and  founded  on  fact !  This  closed  car  smells  of  salt 
fish,  the  strong  New  England  and  commercial  scent, 
reminding  me  of  the  Grand  Banks  and  the  fisheries. 
Who  has  not  seen  a  salt  fish,  thoroughly  cured  for 
this  world,  so  that  nothing  can  spoil  it,  and  putting 
the  perseverance  of  the  saints  to  the  blush  ?  with 
which  you  may  sweep  or  pave  the  streets,  and  split 
your  kindlings,  and  the  teamster  shelter  himself  and 
his  lading  against  sun,  wind,  and  rain  behind  it,  — 
and  the  trader,  as  a  Concord  trader  once  did,  hang  it 
up  by  his  door  for  a  sign  when  he  commences  busi 
ness,  until  at  last  his  oldest  customer  cannot  tell  surely 


SOUNDS.  321 

whether  it  be  animal,  vegetable,  or  mineral,  and  yet  it 
shall  be  as  pure  as  a  snow-flake,  and,  if  it  be  put  into 
a  pot  and  boiled,  will  come  out  an  excellent  dun  fish 
for  a  Saturday's  dinner.  Next  Spanish  hides,  with 
the  tails  still  preserving  their  twist  and  the  angle  of 
elevation  they  had  when  the  oxen  that  wore  them 
were  careering  over  the  pampas  of  the  Spanish  main, 
—  a  type  of  all  obstinacy,  and  evincing  how  almost 
hopeless  and  incurable  Are  all  constitutional  vices.  I 
confess  that  practically  speaking,  when  I  have  learned 
a  man's  real  disposition,  I  have  no  hopes  of  changing 
it  for  the  better  or  worse  in  this  state  of  existence. 
As  the  Orientals  say,  "  A  cur's  tail  may  be  warmed, 
and  pressed,  and  bound  round  with  ligatures,  and 
after  a  twelve  years'  labor  bestowed  upon  it,  still  it 
will  retain  its  natural  form."  The  only  effectual  cure 
for  such  inveteracies  as  these  tails  exhibit  is  to  make 
glue  of  them,  which  I  believe  is  what  is  usually  done 
with  them,  and  then  they  will  stay  put  and  stick. 
Here  is  a  hogshead  of  molasses  or  of  brandy  directed 
to  John  Smith,  Cuttingsville,  Vermont,  some  trader 
among  the  Green  Mountains,  who  imports  for  the 
farmers  near  his  clearing,  and  now  perch?,nce  stands 
over  his  bulk-head  and  thinks  of  the  last  arrivals  on 
the  coast,  how  they  may  affect  the  price  for  him,  tell 
ing  his  customers  this  moment,  as  he  has  told  them 
twenty  times  before  this  morning,  that  he  expects 
some  by  the  next  train,  of  fine  quality.  It  is  adver 
tised  in  the  "  Cuttingsville  Times." 

While  these  things  go  up  other  things  come  down. 
Warned  by  the  whizzing  sound,  I  look  up  from  my 
book  and  see  some  tall  pine,  hewn  on  far  northern 
hills,  which  has  whiged  its  way  over  the  Green  Moun 
tains  and  the  Connecticut,  shot  like  an  arrow  through 


322  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

the  township  within  ten  minutes,  and  scarce  another 
eye  beholds  it ;  going 

"  To  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  ammiral."  1 

And  hark !  here  comes  the  cattle  train  bearing  the  cat 
tle  of  a  thousand  hills,  —  sheepcots,  stables,  and  cow= 
yards  in  the  air,  drovers  with  their  sticks,  and  shep 
herd  boys  in  the  midst  of  their  flocks,  all  but  the 
mountain  pastures,  whirled  along  like  leaves  blown 
from  the  mountains  by  the  September  gales.  The  air 
is  filled  with  the  bleating  of  calves  and  sheep,  and  the 
hustling  of  oxen,  as  if  a  pastoral  valley  were  going  by. 
When  the  old  bell-wether  at  the  head  rattles  his  bell, 
the  mountains  do  indeed  skip  like  rams  and  the  little 
hills  like  lambs.  A  car-load  of  drovers,  too,  in  the 
midst,  on  a  level  with  their  droves  now,  their  vocation 
gone,  but  still  clinging  to  their  useless  sticks  as  their 
badge  of  office.  But  their  dogs,  where  are  they  ?  It 
is  a  stampede  to  them  ;  they  are  quite  thrown  out ; 
they  have  lost  the  scent.  Methinks  I  hear  them 
barking  behind  the  Peterboro  Hills,  or  panting  up  the 
western  slope  of  the  Green  Mountains.  They  will  not 
be  in  at  the  death.  Their  vocation,  too,  is  gone. 
Their  fidelity  and  sagacity  are  below  par  now.  They 
will  slink  back  to  their  kennels  in  disgrace,  or  per 
chance  run  wild  and  strike  a  league  with  the  wolf  and 
the  fox.  So  is  your  pastoral  life  whirled  past  and 
away.  But  the  bell  rings,  and  I  must  get  off  the  track 
and  let  the  cars  go  by  ;  — 

What 's  the  railroad  to  me  ? 
I  never  go  to  see 

Where  it  ends. 

• 

1  Milton  :  Paradise  Lost,  i.  293,  294. 


SOUNDS.  323 

It  fills  a  few  hollows, 

And  makes  banks  for  the  swallows  ; 

It  sets  the  sand  a-blowing, 

And  the  blackberries  a-growing, 

but  I  cross  it  like  a  cart-path  in  the  woods.  I  will 
not  have  my  eyes  put  out  and  my  ears  spoiled  by  its 
smoke  and  steam  and  hissing. 

Now  that  the  cars  are  gone  by  and  all  the  restless 
world  with  them,  and  the  fishes  in  the  pond  no  longer 
feel  their  rumbling,  I  am  more  alone  than  ever.  For 
the  rest  of  the  long  afternoon,  perhaps,  my  meditations 
are  interrupted  only  by  the  faint  rattle  of  a  carriage 
or  team  along  the  distant  highway. 

Sometimes,  on  Sundays,  I  heard  the  bells,  the  Lin 
coln,  Acton,  Bedford,  or  Concord  bell,  when  the  wind 
was  favorable,  a  faint,  sweet,  and,  as  it  were,  natural 
melody,  worth  importing  into  the  wilderness.  At  a 
sufficient  distance  over  the  woods  this  sound  acquires 
a  certain  vibratory  hum,  as  if  the  pine  needles  in  the 
horizon  were  the  strings  of  a  harp  which  it  swept. 
All  sound  heard  at  the  greatest  possible  distance  pro 
duces  one  and  the  same  effect,  a  vibration  of  the  uni 
versal  lyre,  just  as  the  intervening  atmosphere  makes 
a  distant  ridge  of  earth  interesting  to  our  eyes  \>y  the 
azure  tint  it  imparts  to  it.  There  came  to  me  in  this 
case  a  melody  which  the  air  had  strained,  and  which 
had  conversed  with  every  leaf  and  needle  of  the  wood, 
that  portion  of  the  sound  which  the  elements  had 
taken  up  and  modulated  and  echoed  from  vale  to  vale. 
The  echo  is,  to  some  extent,  an  original  sound,  and 
therein  is  the  magic  and  charm  of  it.  It  is  not  merely 
a  repetition  of  what  was  worth  repeating  in  the  bell, 
but  partly  the  voice  of  the  wood ;  the  same  trivial 
words  and  notes  sung  by  a  wood-nymph. 


324  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

At  evening,  the  distant  lowing  of  some  cow  in  the 
horizon  beyond  the  woods  sounded  sweet  and  melodi 
ous,  and  at  first  I  would  mistake  it  for  the  voices  of 
certain  minstrels  by  whom  I  was  sometimes  serenaded, 
who  might  be  straying  over  hill  and  dale  ;  but  soon  I 
was 'not  unpleasantly  disappointed  when  it  was  pro 
longed  into  the  cheap  and  natural  music  of  the  cow. 
I  do  not  mean  to  be  satirical,  but  to  express  my  appre 
ciation  of  those  youths'  singing,  when  I  state  that  I 
perceived  clearly  that  it  was  akin  to  the  music  of  the 
cow,  and  they  were  at  length  one  articulation  of  Nature. 

Regularly  at  half-past  seven,  in  one  part  of  the 
summer,  after  the  evening  train  had  gone  by,  the 
whippoorwills  chanted  their  vespers  for  half  an  hour, 
sitting  on  a  stump  by  my  door,  or  upon  the  ridge-pole 
of  the  house.  They  would  begin  to  sing  almost  with 
as  much  precision  as  a  clock,  within  five  minutes  of  a 
particular  time,  referred  to  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
every  evening.  I  had  a  rare  opportunity  to  become 
acquainted  with  their  habits.  Sometimes  I  heard 
four  or  five  at  once  in  different  parts  of  the  wood,  by 
accident  one  a  bar  behind  another,  and  so  near  me 
that  I  distinguished  not  only  the  cluck  after  each 
note,  but  often  that  singular  buzzing  sound  like  a  fly 
in  a  spider's  web,  only  proportionally  louder.  Some 
times  one  would  circle  round  and  round  me  in  the 
woods  a  few  feet  distant,  as  if  tethered  by  a  string, 
when  probably  I  was  near  its  eggs.  They  sang  at 
intervals  throughout  the  night,  and  were  again  as 
musical  as  ever  just  before  and  about  dawn. 

When  other  birds  are  still,  the  screech  owls  take  up 
the  strain,  like  mourning  women  their  ancient  u-lu-lu.1 

1  The  simple  form  of  mourning,  an  elemental  succession  of 
sounds,  which  both  in  Greek  and  in  Latin  gave  rise  to  nouns  and 
verbs  descriptive  of  mourning. 


SOUNDS.  325 

Their  dismal  scream  is  truly  Ben  Jonsonian.1  Wise 
midnight  hags !  It  is  no  honest  and  blunt  tu-whit  tu- 
who  of  the  poets,  but,  without  jesting,  a  most  solemn 
graveyard  ditty,  the  mutual  consolations  of  suicide 
lovers  remembering  the  pangs  and  the  delights  of 
supernal  love  iii  the  infernal  groves.  Yet  I  love  to 
hear  their  wailing,  their  doleful  responses,  trilled 
along  the  woodside ;  reminding  me  sometimes  of 
music  and  singing-birds  ;  as  if  it  were  the  dark  and 
tearful  side  of  music,  the  regrets  and  sighs  that  would 
fain  be  sung.  They  are  the  spirits,  the  low  spirits 
and  melancholy  forebodings,  of  fallen  souls  that  once 
in  human  shape  night-walked  the  earth  and  did  the 
deeds  of  darkness,  now  expiating  their  sins  with  their 
wailing  hymns  or  threnodies  in  the  scenery  of  their 
transgressions.  They  give  me  a  new  sense  of  the  va 
riety  and  capacity  of  that  nature  which  is  our  com 
mon  dwelling.  Oh-o-o-o-o  that  I  never  had  been 
bor-r-r-r-nf  sighs  one  on  this  side  of  the  pond,  and  cir 
cles  with  the  restlessness  of  despair  to  some  new  perch 
on  the  gray  oaks.  Then  —  that  I  never  had  been 
bor-r-r-r-n  I  echoes  another  on  the  farther  side  with 
tremulous  sincerity,  and  —  bor-r-r-r-n  I  comes  faintly 
from  far  in  the  Lincoln  woods. 

I  was  also  serenaded  by  a  hooting  owl.  Near  at 
hand  you  could  fancy  it  the  most  melancholy  sound  in 
Nature,  as  if  she  meant  by  this  to  stereotype  and  make 
permanent  in  her  choir  the  dying  moans  of  a  human 
being,  —  some  poor  weak  relic  of  mortality  who  has 
left  hope  behind,  and  howls  like  an  animal,  yet  with 
human  sobs,  on  entering  the  dark  valle}^  made  more 
awful  by  a  certain  gurgling  melodiousness,  —  I  find 
myself  beginning  with  the  letters  gl  when  I  try  to 
1  As  iu  The  Masque  of  Queens. 


326  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

imitate  it,  —  expressive  of  a  mind  which  has  reached 
the  gelatinous  mildewy  stage  in  the  mortification  of 
all  healthy  and  courageous  thought.  It  reminded  me 
of  ghouls  and  idiots  and  insane  howlings.  But  now 
one  answers  from  far  woods  in  a  strain  made  really 
melodious  by  distance,  —  Hoo  hoo  Aoo,  hoorer  hoo  ; 
and  indeed  for  the  most  part  it  suggested  only  pleas 
ing  associations,  whether  heard  by  day  or  night,  sum 
mer  or  winter. 

I  rejoice  that  there  are  owls.  Let  them  do  the  idi 
otic  and  maniacal  hooting  for  men.  It  is  a  sound 
admirably  suited  to  swamps  and  twilight  woods  which 
no  day  illustrates,  suggesting  a  vast  and  undeveloped 
nature  which  men  have  not  recognized.  They  repre 
sent  the  stark  twilight  and  unsatisfied  thoughts  which 
all  have.  All  day  the  sun  has  shone  on  the  surface  of 
some  savage  swamp,  where  the  single  spruce  stands 
hung  with  usnea  lichens,  and  small  hawks  circulate 
above,  and  the  chickadee  lisps  amid  the  evergreens, 
and  the  partridge  and  rabbit  skulk  beneath  ;  but  now 
a  more  dismal  and  fitting  day  dawns,  and  a  different 
race  of  creatures  awakes  to  express  the  meaning  of 
Nature  there. 

Late  in  the  evening  I  heard  the  distant  rumbling  of 
wagons  over  bridges,  —  a  sound  heard  farther  than 
almost  any  other  at  night,  —  the  baying  of  dogs,  and 
sometimes  again  the  lowing  of  some  disconsolate  cow 
in  a  distant  barn-yard.  In  the  mean  while  all  the 
shore  rang  with  the  trump  of  bullfrogs,  the  sturdy 
spirits  of  ancient  wine-bibbers  and  wassailers,  still 
unrepentant,  trying  to  sing  a  catch  in  their  Stygian 
lake,  —  if  the  Walden  nymphs  will  pardon  the  com 
parison,  for  though  there  are  almost  no  weeds,  there 
are  frogs  there, —  who  would  fain  keep  up  the  hilarious 


SOUNDS.  327 

rules  of  their  old  festal  tables,  though  their  voices 
have  waxed  hoarse  and  solemnly  grave,  mocking  at 
mirth,  and  the  wine  has  lost  its  flavor,  and  become 
only  liquor  to  distend  their  paunches,  and  sweet  intox 
ication  never  comes  to  drown  the  memory  of  the  past, 
but  mere  saturation  and  waterloggedness  and  disten- 
tion.  The  most  aldermanic,  with  his  chin  upon  a 
heart-leaf,  which  serves  for  a  napkin  to  his  drooling 
chaps,  under  this  northern  shore  quaffs  a  deep  draught 
of  the  once  scorned  water,  and  passes  round  the  cup 
with  the  ejaculation  tr-r-r-oonk,  tr-r-r-oonk,  tr-r-r- 
oonk !  and  straightway  comes  over  the  water  from 
some  distant  cove  the  same  password  repeated,  where 
the  next  in  seniority  and  girth  has  gulped  down  to  his 
mark  ;  and  when  this  observance  has  made  the  circuit 
of  the  shores,  then  ejaculates  the  master  of  ceremo 
nies,  with  satisfaction,  tr-r-r-oonk!  and  each  in  his 
turn  repeats  the  same  down  to  the  least  distended, 
leakiest,  and  flabbiest  paunched,  that  there  be  no  mis 
take  ;  and  then  the  bowl  goes  round  again  and  again, 
until  the  sun  disperses  the  morning  mist,  and  only  the 
patriarch  is  not  under  the  pond,  but  vainly  bellowing 
troonk  from  time  to  time,  and  pausing  for  a  reply. 

I  am  not  sure  that  I  ever  heard  the  sound  of  cock 
crowing  from  my  clearing,  and  I  thought  that  it 
might  be  worth  the  while  to  keep  a  cockerel  for  his 
music  merely,  as  a  singing-bird.  The  note  of  this 
once  wild  Indian  pheasant  is  certainly  the  most 
remarkable  of  any  bird's,  and  if  they  could  be  natu 
ralized  without  being  domesticated,  it  would  soon  be 
come  the  most  famous  sound  in  our  woods,  surpassing 
the  clangor  of  the  goose  and  the  hooting  of  the  owl ; 
and  then  imagine  the  cackling  of  the  hens  to  fill  the 
pauses  when  their  lords'  clarions  rested  !  No  wonder 


328  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

that  man  added  this  bird  to  his  tame  stock,  —  to  say 
nothing  of  the  eggs  and  drumsticks.  To  walk  in  a 
winter  morning  in  a  wood  where  these  birds  abounded, 
their  native  woods,  and  hear  the  wild  cockerels  crow 
on  the  trees,  clear  and  shrill  for  miles  over  the  re 
sounding  earth,  drowning  the  feeble  notes  of  other 
birds,  —  think  of  it !  It  would  put  nations  on  the 
alert.  Who  would  not  be  early  to  rise,  and  rise  ear 
lier  and  earlier  every  successive  day  of  his  life,  till  he 
became  unspeakably  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise  ?  This 
foreign  bird's  note  is  celebrated  by  the  poets  of  all 
countries  along  with  the  notes  of  their  native  song 
sters.  All  climates  agree  with  brave  Chanticleer. 
He  is  more  indigenous  even  than  the  natives.  His 
health  is  ever  good,  his  lungs  are  sound,  his  spirits 
never  flag.  Even  the  sailor  on  the  Atlantic  and  Paci 
fic  is  awakened  by  his  voice;  but  its  shrill  sound 
never  roused  my  slumbers.  I  kept  neither  dog,  cat, 
cow,  pig,  nor  hens,  so  that  you  would  have  said  there 
was  a  deficiency  of  domestic  sounds;  neither  the 
churn,  nor  the  spinning  wheel,  nor  even  the  singing 
of  the  kettle,  nor  the  hissing  of  the  urn,  nor  children 
crying,  to  comfort  one.  An  old-fashioned  man  would 
have  lost  his  senses  or  died  of  ennui  before  this.  Not 
even  rats  in  the  wall,  for  they  were  starved  out,  or 
rather  were  never  baited  in,  —  only  squirrels  on  the 
roof  and  under  the  floor,  a  whippoorwill  on  the  ridge 
pole,  a  blue-jay  screaming  beneath  the  window,  a  hare 
or  woodchuck  under  the  house,  a  screech-owl  or  a  cat- 
owl  behind  it,  a  flock  of  wild  geese  or  a  laughing  loon 
on  the  pond,  and  a  fox  to  bark  in  the  night.  Not 
even  a  lark  or  an  oriole,  those  mild  plantation  birds, 
ever  visited  my  clearing.  No  cockerels  to  crow  nor 
hens  to  cackle  in  the  yard.  No  yard  !  but  unfenced 


BRUTE  NEIGHBORS.  329 

Nature  reaching  up  to  your  very  sills.  A  young  for 
est  growing  up  under  your  windows,  and  wild  sumachs 
and  blackberry  vines  breaking  through  into  your  cel 
lar  ;  sturdy  pitch-pines  rubbing  and  creaking  against 
the  shingles  for  want  of  room,  their  roots  reaching 
quite  under  the  house.  Instead  of  a  scuttle  or  a  blind 
blown  off  in  the  gale,  —  a  pine-tree  snapped  off  or 
torn  up  by  the  roots  behind  your  house  for  fuel.  In 
stead  of  no  path  to  the  front-yard  gate  in  the  Great 
Snow,  —  no  gate,  no  front  yard,  —  and  no  path  to  the 
civilized  world  ! 


II. 
BRUTE  NEIGHBORS. 

WHY  do  precisely  these  objects  which  we  behold 
make  a  world  ?  Why  has  man  just  these  species  of 
animals  for  his  neighbors  ;  as  if  nothing  but  a  mouse 
could  have  filled  this  crevice  ?  I  suspect  that  Pilpay 
&  Co.1  have  put  animals  to  their  best  use,  for  they 
are  all  beasts  of  burden,  in  a  sense,  made  to  carry 
some  portion  of  our  thoughts. 

The  mice  which  haunted  my  house  were  not  the 
common  ones,  which  are  said  to  have  been  introduced 
into  the  country,  but  a  wild  native  kind  not  found  in 
the  village.  I  sent  one  to  a  distinguished  naturalist, 
and  it  interested  him  much.  When  I  was  building, 
one  of  these  had  its  nest  underneath  the  house,  and 
before  I  had  laid  the  second  floor,  and  swept  out  the 
shavings,  would  come  out  regularly  at  lunch  time  and 
pick  up  the  crumbs  at  my  feet.  It  probably  had 

1  That  is,  the  fable  -  writers,  of  whom  Pilpay,  a  Brahmin, 
enjoys  in  the  East  the  distinction  which  has  been  given  to  .ZEsop 
in  the  "West. 


330  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

never  seen  a  man  before ;  and  it  soon  became  quite 
familiar,  and  would  run  over  my  shoes  and  up  my 
clothes.  It  could  readily  ascend  the  sides  of  the  room 
by  short  impulses,  like  a  squirrel,  which  it  resembled 
in  its  motions.  At  length,  as  I  leaned  with  my  elbow 
on  the  bench  one  day,  it  ran  up  my  clothes,  and  along 
rny  sleeve,  and  round  and  round  the  paper  which  held 
my  dinner,  while  I  kept  the  latter  close,  and  dodged 
and  played  at  bo-peep  with  it ;  and  when  at  last  I 
held  still  a  piece  of  cheese  between  my  thumb  and 
finger,  it  came  and  nibbled  it,  sitting  in  my  hand,  and 
afterward  cleaned  its  face  and  paws,  like  a  fly,  and 
walked  away. 

A  phoebe  soon  built  in  my  shed,  and  a  robin  for 
protection  in  a  pine  which  grew  against  the  house.  In 
June  the  partridge  (Tetrao  umbellus),  which  is  so 
shy  a  bird,  led  her  brood  past  my  windows,  from  the 
woods  in  the  rear  to  the  front  of  my  house,  clucking 
and  calling  to  them  like  a  hen,  and  in  all  her  behavior 
proving  herself  the  hen  of  the  woods.  The  young 
suddenly  disperse  on  your  approach,  at  a  signal  from 
the  mother,  as  if  a  whirlwind  had  swept  them  away, 
and  they  so  exactly  resemble  the  dried  leaves  and 
twigs  that  many  a  traveller  has  placed  his  foot  in  the 
midst  of  a  brood,  and  heard  the  whir  of  the  old  bird 
as  she  flew  off,  and  her  anxious  calls  and  mewing,  or 
seen  her  trail  her  wings  to  attract  his  attention,  with 
out  suspecting  their  neighborhood.  The  parent  will 
sometimes  roll  and  spin  round  before  you  in  such  a 
dishabille  that  you  cannot,  for  a  few  moments,  de 
tect  what  kind  of  creature  it  is.  The  young  squat 
still  and  flat,  often  running  their  heads  under  a  leaf, 
and  mind  only  their  mother's  directions  given  from  a 
distance,  nor  will  your  approach  make  them  run  again 


BRUTE  NEIGHBORS.  331 

and  betray  themselves.  You  may  even  tread  on  them, 
or  havs  your  eyes  on  them  for  a  minute,  without  dis 
covering  them.  I  have  held  them  in  my  open  hand 
at  such  a  time,  and  still  their  only  care,  obedient  to 
their  mother  and  their  instinct,  was  to  squat  there 
without  fear  or  trembling.  So  perfect  is  this  instinct, 
that  once,  when  I  had  laid  them  on  the  leaves  again, 
and  one  accidentally  fell  on  its  side,  it  was  found  with 
the  rest  in  exactly  the  same  position  ten  minutes 
afterward.  They  are  not  callow  like  the  young  of 
most  birds,  but  more  perfectly  developed  and  preco 
cious  even  than  chickens.  The  remarkably  adult  yet 
innocent  expression  of  their  open  and  serene  eyes  is 
very  memorable.  All  intelligence  seems  reflected  in 
them.  They  suggest  not  merely  the  purity  of  infancy, 
but  a  wisdom  clarified  by  experience.  Such  an  eye 
was  not  born  when  the  bird  was,  but  is  coeval  with 
the  sky  it  reflects.  The  woods  do  not  yield  another 
such  a  gem.  The  traveller  does  not  often  look  into 
such  a  limpid  well.  The  ignorant  or  reckless  sports 
man  often  shoots  the  parent  at  such  a  time,  and  leaves 
these  innocents  to  fall  a  prey  to  some  prowling  beast 
or  bird,  or  gradually  mingle  with  the  decaying  leaves 
which  they  so  much  resemble.  It  is  said  that  when 
hatched  by  a  hen  they  will  directly  disperse  on  some 
alarm,  and  so  are  lost,  for  they  never  hear  the  mother's 
call  which  gathers  them  again.  These  were  my  hens 
and  chickens. 

It  is  remarkable  how  many  creatures  live  wild  and 
free,  though  secret,  in  the  woods,  and  still  sustain 
themselves  in  the  neighborhood  of  towns,  suspected  by 
hunters  only.  How  retired  the  otter  manages  to  live 
here !  He  grows  to  be  four  feet  long,  as  big  as  a 
small  boy,  perhaps  without  any  human  being  getting 


332  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

a  glimpse  of  him.  I  formerly  saw  the  raccoon  in  the 
woods  behind  where  my  house  is  built,  and  probably 
still  heard  their  whinnering  at  night.  Commonly  I 
rested  an  hour  or  two  in  the  shade  at  noon,  after 
planting,  and  ate  my  lunch,  and  read  a  little  by  a 
spring  which  was  the  source  of  a  swamp  and  of  a 
brook,  oozing  from  under  Brister's  Hill,  half  a  mile 
from  my  field.  The  approach  to  this  was  through  a 
succession  of  descending  grassy  hollows,  full  of  young 
pitch-pines,  into  a  larger  wood  about  the  swamp. 
There,  in  a  very  secluded  and  shaded  spot,  under  a 
spreading  white-pine,  there  was  yet  a  clean,  firm 
sward  to  sit  on.  I  had  dug  out  the  spring  and  made 
a  well  of  clear  gray  water,  where  I  could  dip  up  a 
pailful  without  roiling  it,  and  thither  I  went  for  this 
purpose  almost  every  day  in  midsummer,  when  the 
pond  was  warmest.  Thither,  too,  the  woodcock  led 
her  brood,  to  probe  the  mud  for  worms,  flying  but  a 
foot  above  them  down  the  bank,  while  they  ran  in  a 
troop  beneath ;  but  at  last,  spying  me,  she  would 
leave  her  young  and  circle  round  and  round  me, 
nearer  and  nearer  till  within  four  or  five  feet,  pretend 
ing  broken  wings  and  legs,  to  attract  my  attention, 
and  get  off  her  young,  who  would  already  have  taken 
\\p  their  march,  with  faint  wiry  peep,  single  file 
through  the  swamp,  as  she  directed.  Or  I  heard  the 
peep  of  the  young  when  I  could  not  see  the  parent 
bird.  There,  too,  the  turtle-doves  sat  over  the  spring, 
or  fluttered  from  bough  to  bough  of  the  soft  white- 
pines  over  my  head ;  or  the  red  squirrel,  coursing 
down  the  nearest  bough,  was  particularly  familiar  and 
inquisitive.  You  only  need  sit  still  long  enough  in 
some  attractive  spot  in  the  woods  that  all  its  inhabi 
tants  may  exhibit  themselves  to  you  by  turns. 


BRUTE  NEIGHBORS.  333 

I  was  witness  to  events  of  a  less  peaceful  character. 
One  day  when  I  went  out  to  my  woodpile,  or  rather 
my  pile  of  stumps,  I  observed  two  large  ants,  the  one 
red,  the  other  much  larger,  nearly  half  an  inch  long, 
and  black,  fiercely  contending  with  one  another. 
Having  once  got  hold,  they  never  let  go,  but  strug 
gled  and  wrestled  and  rolled  on  the  chips  incessantly. 
Looking  farther,  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  the  chips 
were  covered  with  such  combatants,  that  it  was  not  a 
duellum,  but  a  bellum,  a  war  between  two  races  of 
ants,  the  red  always  pitted  against  the  black,  and  fre 
quently  two  red  ones  to  one  black.  The  legions  of 
these  Myrmidons  covered  all  the  hills  and  vales  in 
my  wood-yard,  and  the  ground  was  already  strewn 
with  the  dead  and  dying,  both  red  and  black.  It  was 
the  only  battle  which  I  have  ever  witnessed,  the  only 
battle-field  I  ever  trod  while  the  battle  was  raging ; 
internecine  war;  the  red  republicans  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  black  imperialists  on  the  other.  On  every 
side  they  were  engaged  in  deadly  combat,  yet  without 
any  noise  that  I  could  hear,  and  human  soldiers  never 
fought  so  resolutely.  I  watched  a  couple  that  were 
fast  locked  in  each  other's  embraces,  in  a  little  sunny 
valley  amid  the  chips,  now  at  noon-day  prepared  to 
fight  till  the  sun  went  down  or  life  went  out.  The 
smaller  red  champion  had  fastened  himself  like  a  vise 
to  his  adversary's  front,  and  through  all  the  tumblings 
on  that  field  never  for  an  instant  ceased  to  gnaw  at 
one  of  his  feelers  near  the  root,  having  already  caused 
the  other  to  go  by  the  board ;  while  the  stronger 
black  one  dashed  him  from  side  to  side,  and,  as  I  saw 
on  looking  nearer,  had  already  divested  him  of  several 
of  his  members.  They  fought  with  more  pertinacity 
than  bull-dogs.  Neither  manifested  the  least  disposi- 


334  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

tion  to  retreat.  It  was  evident  that  their  battle-cry 
was  Conquer  or  die.  In  the  mean  while  there  came 
along  a  single  red  ant  on  the  hillside  of  this  valley, 
evidently  full  of  excitement,  who  either  had  dispatched 
his  foe  or  had  not  yet  taken  part  in  the  battle, — prob 
ably  the  latter,  for  he  had  lost  none  of  his  limbs,  — 
whose  mother  had  charged  him  to  return  with  his 
shield  or  upon  it.  Or  perchance  he  was  some  Achil 
les,  who  had  nourished  his  wrath  apart,  and  had  now 
come  to  avenge  or  rescue  his  Patroclus.1  He  saw  this 
unequal  combat  from  afar,  —  for  the  blacks  were 
nearly  twice  the  size  of  the  red,  —  he  drew  near  with 
rapid  pace  till  he  stood  on  his  guard  within  half  an 
inch  of  the  combatants  ;  then,  watching  his  opportu 
nity,  he  sprang  upon  the  black  warrior,  and  com 
menced  his  operations  near  the  root  of  his  right  fore 
leg,  leaving  the  foe  to  select  among  his  own  members ; 
and  so  there  were  three  united  for  life,  as  if  a  new 
kind  of  attraction  had  been  invented  which  put  all 
other  locks  and  cements  to  shame.  I  should  not  have 
wondered  by  this  time  to  find  that  they  had  their 
respective  musical  bands  stationed  on  some  eminent 
chip,  and  playing  their  national  airs  the  while,  to  excite 
the  slow  and  cheer  the  dying  combatants.  I  was  my 
self  excited  somewhat  even  as  if  they  had  been  men. 
The  more  you  think  of  it,  the  less  the  difference.  And 
certainly  there  is  not  the  fight  recorded  in  Concord 
history,  at  least,  if  in  the  history  of  America,  that  will 
bear  a  moment's  comparison  with  this,  whether  for 

1  In  Homer's  Iliad,  Achilles,  in  a  sullen  wrath  against  Aga 
memnon,  remains  in  his  tent  and  refuses  to  engage  in  battle, 
until  Patroclus,  his  friend  whom  he  armed,  has  been  killed  by 
Hector,  when  he  goes  out  to  avenge  the  death  on  the  Trojan 
chief. 


BRUTE  NEIGHBORS.  335 

the  numbers  engaged  in  it,  or  for  the  patriotism  and 
heroism  displayed.  For  numbers  and  for  carnage  it 
was  an  Austerlitz  or  Dresden.  Concord  Fight !  Two 
killed  on  the  patriots'  side,  and  Luther  Blan chard 
wounded !  Why,  here  every  ant  was  a  Buttrick,  — 
*'  Fire !  for  God's  sake,  fire !  "  —  and  thousands  shared 
the  fate  of  Davis  and  Hosmer.  There  was  not  one 
hireling  there.  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  was  a  princi 
ple  they  fought  for,  as  much  as  our  ancestors,  and  not 
to  avoid  a  three-penny  tax  on  their  tea ;  and  the 
results  of  this  battle  will  be  as  important  and  memo 
rable  to  those  whom  it  concerns  as  those  of  the  battle 
of  Bunker  Hill,  at  least. 

I  took  up  the  chip  on  which  the  three  I  have  par 
ticularly  described  were  struggling,  carried  it  into  my 
house,  and  placed  it  under  a  tumbler  on  my  window- 
sill,  in  order  to  see  the  issue.  Holding  a  microscope 
to  the  first-mentioned  red  ant,  I  saw  that,  though  he 
was  assiduously  gnawing  at  the  near  fore-leg  of  his 
enemy,  having  severed  his  remaining  feeler,  his  own 
breast  was  all  torn  away,  exposing  what  vitals  he  had 
there  to  the  jaws  of  the  black  warrior,  whose  breast 
plate  was  apparently  too  thick  for  him  to  pierce  ;  and 
the  dark  carbuncles  of  the  sufferer's  eyes  shone  with 
ferocity  such  as  war  only  could  excite.  They  strug 
gled  half  an  hour  longer  under  the  tumbler,  and  when 
I  looked  again  the  black  soldier  had  severed  the  heads 
of  his  foes  from  their  bodies,  and  the  still  living  heads 
were  hanging  on  either  side  of  him  like  ghastly  tro 
phies  at  his  saddle-bow,  still  apparently  as  firmly  fas 
tened  as  ever,  and  he  was  endeavoring  with  feeble 
struggles,  being  without  feelers  and  with  only  the 
remnant  of  a  leg,  and  I  know  not  how  many  other 
wounds,  to  divest  himself  of  them ;  which  at  length, 


336  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

after  half  an  hour  more,  he  accomplished.  I  raised 
the  glass,  and  he  went  off  over  the  window-sill  in  that 
crippled  state.  Whether  he  finally  survived  that 
combat,  and  spent  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  some 
Hotel  des  Invalides,1  I  do  not  know ;  but  I  thought 
that  his  industry  would  not  be  worth  much  thereafter. 
I  never  learned  which  party  was  victorious,  nor  the 
cause  of  the  war ;  but  I  felt  for  the  rest  of  that  day 
as  if  I  had  had  my  feelings  excited  and  harrowed  by 
witnessing  the  struggle,  the  ferocity  and  carnage,  of  a 
human  battle  before  my  door. 

Kirby  and  Spence  2  tell  us  that  the  battles  of  ants 
have  long  been  celebrated  and  the  date  of  them  re 
corded,  though  they  say  that  Huber  is  the  only  mod 
ern  author  who  appears  to  have  witnessed  them. 
"2Eneas  Sylvius,"  say  they,  "  after  giving  a  very  cir 
cumstantial  account  of  one  contested  with  great  obsti 
nacy  by  a  great  and  small  species  on  the  trunk  of  a 
pear-tree,"  adds  that  "  '  This  action  was  fought  in  the 
pontificate  of  Eugenius  the  Fourth,  in  the  presence  of 
Nicholas  Pistoriensis,  an  eminent  lawyer,  who  related 
the  whole  history  of  the  battle  with  the  greatest  fidel 
ity.'  A  similar  engagement  between  great  and  small 
ants  is  recorded  by  Olaus  Magnus,  in  which  the  small 
ones,  being  victorious,  are  said  to  have  buried  the 
bodies  of  their  own  soldiers,  but  left  those  of  their  gi 
ant  enemies  a  prey  to  the  birds.  This  event  happened 
previous  to  the  expulsion  of  the  tyrant  Christiern  the 
Second  from  Sweden."  The  battle  which  I  witnessed 

1  The  Hotel  des  Invalides  in  Paris  was  founded  in  1670,  by 
Louis  XIV.,  as  a  home  for  disabled  and  infirm  soldiers,  and  in 
a  crypt  under  the  church  connected  with  it  is  the  tomb  of  Na 
poleon. 

2  In  their  Introduction  to  Entomology. 


BRUTE  NEIGHBORS.  337 

took  place  in  the  Presidency  of  Polk,  five  years  before 
the  passage  of  Webster's  Fugitive-Slave  Bill. 

Many  a  village  Bose,  fit  .only  to  course  a  mud-tur 
tle  in  a  victualling  cellar,  sported  his  heavy  quarters 
in  the  woods,  without  the  knowledge  of  his  master, 
and  ineffectually  smelled  at  old  fox  burrows  and 
woodchucks'  holes  ;  led  perchance  by  some  slight  cur 
which  nimbly  threaded  the  wood,  and  might  still  in 
spire  a  natural  terror  in  its  denizens ;  —  now  far  be 
hind  his  guide,  barking  like  a  canine  bull  toward  some 
small  squirrel  which  had  treed  itself  for  scrutiny,  then 
cantering  off,  bending  the  bushes  with  his  weight, 
imagining  that  he  is  on  the  track  of  some  stray  mem 
ber  of  the  jerbilla  family.  Once  I  was  surprised  to 
see  a  cat  walking  along  the  stony  shore  of  the  pond, 
for  they  rarely  wander  so  far  from  home.  The  sur 
prise  was  mutual.  Nevertheless  the  most  domestic 
cat,  which  has  lain  on  a  rug  all  her  days,  appears 
quite  at  home  in  the  woods,  and,  by  her  sly  and 
stealthy  behavior,  proves  herself  more  native  there 
than  the  regular  inhabitants.  Once,  when  berrying, 
I  met  with  a  cat  with  young  kittens  in  the  woods, 
quite  wild,  and  they  all,  like  their  mother,  had  their 
backs  up  and  were  fiercely  spitting  at  me.  A  few 
years  before  I  lived  in  the  woods  there  was  what  was 
called  a  "  winged  cat "  in  one  of  the  farmhouses 
in  Lincoln  nearest  the  pond,  Mr.  Gilian  Baker's. 
When  I  called  to  see  her  in  June,  1842,  she  was  gone 
a-hunting  in  the  woods,  as  was  her  wont  (I  am  not 
sure  whether  it  was  a  male  or  female,  and  so  use  the 
more  common  pronoun),  but  her  mistress  told  me  that 
she  came  into  the  neighborhood  a  little  more  than  a 
year  before,  in  April,  and  was  finally  taken  into  their 
house ;  that  she  was  of  a  dark  brownish-gray  color, 


338  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

with  a  white  spot  on  her  throat,  and  white  feet,  and 
had  a  large  bushy  tail  like  a  fox  ;  that  in  the  winter 
the  fur  grew  thick  and  flatted  out  along  her  sides, 
forming  strips  ten  or  twelve  incke*  long  by  two  and 
a  half  wide,  and  under  her  chin  like  a  muff,  the  upper 
side  loose,  the  under  matted  like  felt,  and  in  the 
spring  these  appendages  dropped  off.  They  gave  me 
a  pair  of  her  "  wings,"  which  I  keep  still.  There  is 
no  appearance  of  a  membrane  about  them.  Some 
thought  it  was  part  flying-squirrel  or  some  other  wild 
animal,  which  is  not  impossible,  for,  according  to  nat 
uralists,  prolific  hybrids  have  been  produced  by  the 
union  of  the  marten  and  domestic  cat.  This  would 
have  been  the  right  kind  of  cat  for  me  to  keep,  if  I 
had  kept  any;  for  why  should  not  a  poet's  cat  be 
winged  as  well  as  his  horse  ? 

In  the  fall  the  loon  (  Colymbus  glacialis^)  came,  as 
usual,  to  moult  and  bathe  in  the  pond,  making  the 
woods  ring  with  his  wild  laughter  before  I  had  risen. 
At  rumor  of  his  arrival  all  the  Mill-dam  sportsmen 
are  on  the  alert,  in  gigs  and  on  foot,  two  by  two  and 
three  by  three,  with  patent  rifles  and  conical  balls  and 
spy-glasses.  They  come  rustling  through  the  woods 
like  autumn  leaves,  at  least  ten  men  to  one  loon. 
Some  station  themselves  on  this  side  of  the  pond, 
some  on  that,  for  the  poor  bird  cannot  be  omnipres 
ent;  if  he  dive  here  he  must  come  up  there.  But 
now  the  kind  October  wind  rises,  rustling  the  leaves 
and  rippling  the  surface  of  the  water,  so  that  no 
loon  can  be  heard  or  seen,  though  his  foes  sweep  the 
pond  with  spy-glasses,  and  make  the  woods  resound 
with  their  discharges.  The  waves  generously  rise 
and  dash  angrily,  taking  sides  with  all  waterfowl,  and 
our  sportsmen  must  beat  a  retreat  to  town  and  shop 


BRUTE  NEIGHBORS.  339 

and  unfinished  jobs.  But  they  were  too  often  success 
ful.  When  I  went  to  get  a  pail  of  water  early  in  the 
morning  I  frequently  saw  this  stately  bird  sailing  out 
of  iny  cove  within  a  few  rods.  If  I  endeavored  to 
overtake  him  in  a  boat,  in  order  to  see  how  he  would 
manoeuvre,  he  would  dive  and  be  completely  lost,  so 
that  I  did  not  discover  him  again,  sometimes,  till  the 
latter  part  of  the  day.  But  I  was  more  than  a  match 
for  him  on  the  surface.  He  commonly  went  off  in  a 
rain. 

As  I  was  paddling  along  the  north  shore  one  very 
calm  October  afternoon,  for  such  days  especially  they 
settle  on  to  the  lakes,  like  the  milkweed  down,  having 
looked  in  vain  over  the  pond  for  a  loon,  suddenly  one, 
sailing  out  from  the  shore  toward  the  middle  a  few 
rods  in  front  of  me,  set  up  his  wild  laugh  and  be 
trayed  himself.  I  pursued  with  a  paddle  and  he 
dived,  but  when  he  came  up  I  was  nearer  than  before. 
He  dived  again,  but  I  miscalculated  the  direction  he 
would  take,  and  we  were  fifty  rods  apart  when  he 
came  to  the  surface  this  time,  for  I  had  helped  to 
widen  the  interval ;  and  again  he  laughed  long  and 
loud,  and  with  more  reason  than  before.  He  manoeu 
vred  so  cunningly  that  I  could  not  get  within  half  a 
dozen  rods  of  him.  Each  time,  when  he  came  to  the 
surface,  turning  his  head  this  way  and  that,  he  coolly 
surveyed  the  water  and  the  land,  and  apparently  chose 
his  course  so  that  he  might  come  up  where  there  was 
the  widest  expanse  of  water  and  at  the  greatest  dis 
tance  from  the  boat.  It  was  surprising  how  quickly 
he  made  up  his  mind  and  piit  his  resolve  into  execu 
tion.  He  led  me  at  once  to  the  widest  part  of  the 
pond,  and  could  not  be  driven  from  it.  While  he 
was  thinking  one  thing  in  his  brain,  I  was  endeavor- 


340  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

ing  to  divine  his  thought  in  mine.  It  was  a  pretty 
game,  played  on  the  smooth  surface  of  the  pond,  a 
man  against  a  loon.  Suddenly  your  adversary's 
checker  disappears  beneath  the  board,  and  the  prob 
lem  is  to  place  yours  nearest  to  where  his  will  appear 
again.  Sometimes  he  would  come  up  unexpectedly 
on  the  opposite  side  of  me,  having  apparently  passed 
directly  under  the  boat.  So  long-winded  was  he  and 
so  unweariable,  that  when  he  had  swum  farthest  he 
would  immediately  plunge  again,  nevertheless ;  and 
then  no  wit  could  divine  where  in  the  deep  pond,  be 
neath  the  smooth  surface,  he  might  be  speeding  his 
way  like  a  fish,  for  he  had  time  and  ability  to  visit 
the  bottom  of  the  pond  in  its  deepest  part.  It  is  said 
that  loons  have  been  caught  in  the  New  York  lakes 
eighty  feet  beneath  the  surface,  with  hooks  set  for 
trout,  —  though  Walden  is  deeper  than  that.  How 
surprised  must  the  fishes  be  to  see  this  ungainly  vis 
itor  from  another  sphere  speeding  his  way  amid  their 
schools !  Yet  he  appeared  to  know  his  course  as 
surely  under  water  as  on  the  surface,  and  swam  much 
faster  there.  Once  or  twice  I  saw  a  ripple  where  he 
approached  the  surface,  just  put  his  head  out  to  re 
connoitre,  and  instantly  dived  again.  I  found  that  it 
was  as  well  for  me  to  rest  on  my  oars  and  wait  his 
reappearing  as  to  endeavor  to  calculate  where  he 
would  rise  ;  for  again  and  again,  when  I  was  straining 
my  eyes  over  the  surface  one  way,  I  would  suddenly 
be  startled  by  his  unearthly  laugh  behind  me.  But 
why,  after  displaying  so  much  cunning,  did  he  invari 
ably  betray  himself  the  moment  he  came  up  by  that 
loud  laugh  ?  Did  not  his  white  breast  enough  betray 
him  ?  He  was  indeed  a  silly  loon,  I  thought.  I  could 
commonly  hear  the  plash  of  the  water  when  he  came 


BRUTE  NEIGHBORS.  341 

up,  and  so  also  detected  him.  But  after  an  hour  he 
seemed  as  fresh  as  ever,  dived  as  willingly  and  swam 
yet  farther  than  at  first.  It  was  surprising  to  see 
how  serenely  he  sailed  off  with  unruffled  breast  when 
he  came  to  the  surface,  doing  all  the  work  with  his 
webbed  feet  beneath.  His  usual  note  was  this  demo 
niac  laughter,  yet  somewhat  like  that  of  a  waterfowl ; 
but  occasionally,  when  he  had  balked  me  most  success 
fully  and  come  up  a  long  way  off,  he  uttered  a  long- 
drawn  unearthly  howl,  probably  more  like  that  of  a 
wolf  than  any  bird ;  as  when  a  beast  puts  his  muzzle 
to  the  ground  and  deliberately  howls.  This  was  his 
looning,  —  perhaps  the  wildest  sound  that  is  ever 
heard  here,  making  the  woods  ring  far  and  wide.  I 
concluded  that  he  laughed  in  derision  of  my  efforts, 
confident  of  his  own  resources.  Though  the  sky  was 
by  this  time  overcast,  the  pond  was  so  smooth  that  I 
could  see  where  he  broke  the  surface  when  I  did  not 
hear  him.  His  white  breast,  the  stillness  of  the  air, 
and  the  smoothness  of  the  water  were  all  against  him. 
At  length,  having  come  up  fifty  rods  off,  he  uttered 
one  of  those  prolonged  howls,  as  if  calling  on  the  god 
of  loons  to  aid  him,  and  immediately  there  came  a 
wind  from  the  east  and  rippled  the  surface,  and  filled 
the  whole  air  with  misty  rain,  and  I  was  impressed 
as  if  it  were  the  prayer  of  the  loon  answered,  and  his 
god  was  angry  with  me ;  and  so  I  left  him  disappear 
ing  far  away  on  the  tumultuous  surface. 

For  hours,  in  fall  days,  I  watched  the  ducks  cun 
ningly  tack  and  veer  and  hold  the  middle  of  the  pond, 
far  from  the  sportsman  ;  tricks  which  they  will  have 
less  need  to  practise  in  Louisiana  bayous.  When 
compelled  to  rise  they  would  sometimes  circle  round 
and  round  and  over  the  pond  at  a  considerable  heightj 


342  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

from  which  they  could  easily  see  to  other  ponds  and 
the  river,  like  black  motes  in  the  sky ;  and  when  I 
thought  they  had  gone  off  thither  long  since,  they 
would  settle  down  by  a  slanting  flight  of  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  on  to  a  distant  part  which  was  left  free ;  but 
what  beside  safety  they  got  by  sailing  in  the  middle 
of  Walden  I  do  not  know,  unless  they  love  its  water 
for  the  same  reason  that  I  do. 


III. 
THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT. 

THIS  lighthouse,  known  to  mariners  as  the  Cape  Cod 
or  Highland  Light,  is  one  of  our  "  primary  sea-coast 
lights,"  and  is  usually  the  first  seen  by  those  approach 
ing  the  entrance  of  Massachusetts  Bay  from  Europe. 
It  is  forty-three  miles  from  Cape  Ann  Light,  and 
forty-one  from  Boston  Light.  It  stands  about  twenty 
rods  from  the  edge  of  the  bank,  which  is  here  formed 
of  clay.  I  borrowed  the  plane  and  square,  level  and 
dividers  of  a  carpenter  who  was  shingling  a  barn  near 
by,  and  using  one  of  those  shingles  made  of  a  mast, 
contrived  a  rude  sort  of  quadrant,  with  pins  for  sights 
and  pivots,  and  got  the  angle  of  elevation  of  the 
bank  opposite  the  lighthouse,  and  with  a  couple  of 
codlines  the  length  of  its  slope,  and  so  measured  its 
height  on  the  shingle.  It  rises  one  hundred  and  ten 
feet  above  its  immediate  base,  or  about  one  hundred 
and  twenty-three  feet  above  mean  low  water.  Graham, 
who  has  carefully  surveyed  the  extremity  of  the  Cape, 
makes  it  one  hundred  and  thirty  feet.  The  mixed 


THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  343 

sand  and  clay  lay  at  an  angle  of  forty  degrees  with 
the  horizon,  where  I  measured  it,  but  the  clay  is  gen 
erally  much  steeper.  No  cow  nor  hen  ever  gets  down 
it.  Half  a  mile  farther  south  the  bank  is  fifteen  or 
twenty-five  feet  higher,  and  that  appeared  to  be  the 
highest  land  in  North  Truro.  Even  this  vast  clay 
bank  is  fast  wearing  away.  Small  streams  of  water 
trickling  down  it  at  intervals  of  two  or  three  rods 
have  left  the  intermediate  clay  in  the  form  of  steep 
Gothic  roofs  fifty  feet  high  or  more,  the  ridges  as 
sharp  and  rugged-looking  as  rocks ;  and  in  one  place 
the  bank  is  curiously  eaten  out  in  the  form  of  a  large 
semicircular  crater. 

According  to  the  lighthouse  keeper,  the  Cape  is 
wasting  here  on  both  sides,  though  most  on  the  east 
ern.  In  some  places  it  had  lost  many  rods  within  the 
last  year,  and,  erelong,  the  lighthouse  must  be  moved. 
We  calculated,  from  his  data,  how  soon  the  Cape 
would  be  quite  worn  away  at  this  point,  "for,"  said 
he,  "  I  can  remember  sixty  years  back."  We  were 
even  more  surprised  at  this  last  announcement  —  that 
is,  at  the  slow  waste  of  life  and  energy  in  our  infor 
mant,  for  we  had  taken  him  to  be  not  more  than 
forty  —  than  at  the  rapid  wasting  of  the  Cape,  and  we 
thought  that  he  stood  a  fair  chance  to  outlive  the 
former. 

Between  this  October  and  June  of  the  next  year,  I 
found  that  the  bank  had  lost  about  forty  feet  in  one 
place,  opposite  the  lighthouse,  and  it  was  cracked 
more  than  forty  feet  farther  from  the  edge  at  the  last 
date,  the  shore  being  strewn  with  the  recent  rubbish. 
But  I  judged  that  generally  it  was  not  wearing  away 
here  at  the  rate  of  more  than  six  feet  annually.  Any 
conclusions  drawn  from  the  observations  of  a  few 


344  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

years  or  one  generation  only  are  likely  to  prove  false, 
and  the  Cape  may  balk  expectation  by  its  durability. 
In  some  places  even  a  wrecker's  foot-path  down  the 
bank  lasts  several  years.  One  old  inhabitant  told  us 
that  when  the  lighthouse  was  built,  in  1798,  it  was 
calculated  that  it  would  stand  forty-five  years,  allow 
ing  the  bank  to  waste  one  length  of  fence  each  year, 
"  but,"  said  he,  "there  it  is  "  (or  rather  another  near 
the  same  site,  about  twenty  rods  from  the  edge  of  the 
bank). 

The  sea  is  not  gaining  on  the  Cape  everywhere,  for 
one  man  told  me  of  a  vessel  wrecked  long  ago  on  the 
north  of  Provincetown  whose  "  bones  "  (this  was  his 
word)  are  still  visible  many  rods  within  the  present 
line  of  the  beach,  half  buried  in  sand.  Perchance 
they  lie  alongside  the  timbers  of  a  whale.  The  gen 
eral  statement  of  the  inhabitants  is  that  the  Cape  is 
wasting  on  both  sides,  but  extending  itself  on  particu 
lar  points  on  the  south  and  west,  as  at  Chatham  and 
Monomoy  beaches,  and  at  Billingsgate,  Long,  and 
Race  points.  James  Freeman  stated  in  his  day  that 
above  three  miles  had  been  added  to  Monomoy  Beach 
during  the  previous  fifty  years,  and  it  is  said  to  be 
still  extending  as  fast  as  ever.  A  writer  in  the  "  Mas 
sachusetts  Magazine,"  in  the  last  century,  tells  us 
that  "  when  the  English  first  settled  upon  the  Cape, 
there  was  an  Island  off  Chatham,  at  three  leagues'  dis 
tance,  called  Webb's  Island,  containing  twenty  acres, 
covered  with  red-cedar  or  savin.  The  inhabitants  of 
Nantucket  used  to  carry  wood  from  it ;  "  but  he  adds 
that  in  his  day  a  large  rock  alone  marked  the  spot, 
and  the  water  was  six  fathoms  deep  there.  The 
entrance  to  Nauset  Harbor,  which  was  once  in  East 
ham,  has  now  travelled  south  into  Orleans.  The 


THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  345 

islands  in  Wellfleet  Harbor  once  formed  a  continuous 
beach,  though  now  small  vessels  pass  between  them. 
And  so  of  many  other  parts  of  this  coast. 

Perhaps  what  the  Ocean  takes  from  one  part  of  the 
Cape  it  gives  to  another,  —  robs  Peter  to  pay  Paul. 
On  the  eastern  side  the  sea  appears  to  be  everywhere 
encroaching  on  the  land.  Not  only  the  land  is  under 
mined,  and  its  ruins  carried  off  by  currents,  but  the 
sand  is  blown  from  the  beach  directly  up  the  steep 
bank  where  it  is  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high,  and 
covers  the  original  surface  there  many  feet  deep.  If 
you  sit  on  the  edge  you  will  have  ocular  demonstra 
tion  of  this  by  soon  getting  your  eyes  full.  Thus  the 
bank  preserves  its  height  as  fast  as  it  is  worn  away. 
This  sand  is  steadily  travelling  westward  at  a  rapid 
rate,  "  more  than  a  hundred  yards,"  says  one  writer, 
within  the  memory  of  inhabitants  now  living  ;  so  that 
in  some  places  peat-meadows  are  buried  deep  under 
the  sand,  and  the  peat  is  cut  through  it ;  and  in  one 
place  a  large  peat-meadow  has  made  its  appearance  on 
the  shore  in  the  bank  covered  many  feet  deep,  and 
peat  has  been  cut  there.  This  accounts  for  that  great 
pebble  of  peat  which  we  saw  in  the  surf.  The  old 
oysterman  had  told  us  that  many  years  ago  he  lost  a 
"•  crittur  "  by  her  being  mired  in  a  swamp  near  the 
Atlantic  side  east  of  his  house,  and  twenty  years  ago 
he  lost  the  swamp  itself  entirely,  but  has  since  seen 
signs  of  it  appearing  on  the  beach.  He  also  said  that 
he  had  seen  cedar  stumps  "  as  big  as  cart-wheels  "  (!) 
on  the  bottom  of  the  Bay,  three  miles  off  Billingsgate 
Point,  when  leaning  over  the  side  of  his  boat  in  plea 
sant  weather,  and  that  that  was  dry  land  not  long  ago. 
Another  told  us  that  a  log  canoe  known  to  have  been 
buried  many  years  before  on  the  Bay  side  at  East 


346  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

Harbor  in  Truro,  where  the  Cape  is  extremely  narrow, 
appeared  at  length  on  the  Atlantic  side,  the  Cape  hav 
ing  rolled  over  it,  and  an  old  woman  said,  "Now, 
you  see,  it  is  true  what  I  told  you,  that  the  Cape  is 
moving." 

The  bars  along  the  coast  shift  with  every  storm, 
and  in  many  places  there  is  occasionally  none  at 
all.  We  ourselves  observed  the  effect  of  a  single 
storm  with  a  high  tide  in  the  night,  in  July,  1855. 
It  moved  the  sand  on  the  beach  opposite  the  light 
house  to  the  depth  of  six  feet  and  three  rods  in  width 
as  far  as  we  could  see  north  and  south,  and  carried  it 
bodily  off  no  one  knows  exactly  where,  laying  bare  in 
one  place  a  large  rock  five  feet  high  which  was  invisi 
ble  before,  and  narrowing  the  beach  to  that  extent. 
There  is  usually,  as  I  have  said,  no  bathing  on  the 
back  side  of  the  Cape,  on  account  of  the  undertow, 
but  when  we  were  there  last,  the  sea  had,  three  months 
before,  cast  up  a  bar  near  this  lighthouse,  two  miles 
long  and  ten  rods  wide,  over  which  the  tide  did  not 
flow,  leaving  a  narrow  cove,  then  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
long,  between  it  and  the  shore,  which  afforded  excel 
lent  bathing.  This  cove  had  from  time  to  time  been 
closed  up  as  the  bar  travelled  northward,  in  one 
instance  imprisoning  four  or  five  hundred  whiting  and 
cod,  which  died  there,  and  the  water  as  often  turned 
fresh  and  finally  gave  place  to  sand.  This  bar,  the 
inhabitants  assured  us,  might  be  wholly  removed,  and 
the  water  six  feet  deep  there  in  two  or  three  days. 

The  lighthouse  keeper  said  that  when  the  wind 
blowed  strong  on  to  the  shore,  the  waves  ate  fast  into 
the  bank,  but  when  it  blowed  off  they  took  no  sand 
away ;  for  in  the  former  case  the  wind  heaped  up  the 
surface  of  the  water  next  to  the  beach,  and  to  pre- 


THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  347 

serve  its  equilibrium  a  strong  undertow  immediately 
set  back  again  into  the  sea  which  carried  with  it  the 
sand  and  whatever  else  was  in  the  way,  and  left  the 
beach  hard  to  walk  on ;  but  in  the  latter  case  the 
undertow  set  on,  and  carried  the  sand  with  it,  so  that 
it  was  particularly  difficult  for  shipwrecked  men  to  get 
to  land  when  the  wind  blowed  on  to  the  shore,  but 
easier  when  it  blowed  off.  This  undertow,  meeting 
the  next  surface  wave  on  the  bar  which  itself  has 
made,  forms  part  of  the  dam  over  which  the  latter 
breaks,  as  over  an  upright  wall.  The  sea  thus  plays 
with  the  land,  holding  a  sand-bar  in  its  mouth  awhile 
before  it  swallows  it,  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse ;  but 
the  fatal  gripe  is  sure  to  come  at  last.  The  sea  sends 
its  rapacious  east  wind  to  rob  the  land,  but  before  the 
former  has  got  far  with  its  prey,  the  land  sends  its 
honest  west  wind  to  recover  some  of  its  own.  But, 
according  to  Lieutenant  Davis,  the  forms,  extent,  and 
distribution  of  sand-bars  and  banks  are  principally 
determined,  not  by  winds  and  waves,  but  by  tides. 

Our  host  said  that  you  would  be  surprised  if  you 
were  on  the  beach  when  the  wind  blew  a  hurricane 
directly  on  to  it,  to  see  that  none  of  the  drift-wood 
came  ashore,  but  all  was  carried  directly  northward 
and  parallel  with  the  shore  as  fast  as  a  man  can  walk, 
by  the  inshore  current,  which  sets  strongly  in  that 
direction  at  flood  tide.  The  strongest  swimmers  also 
are  carried  along  with  it,  and  never  gain  an  inch 
toward  the  beach.  Even  a  large  rock  has  been  moved 
half  a  mile  northward  along  the  beach.  He  assured 
us  that  the  sea  was  never  still  on  the  back  side  of  the 
Cape,  but  ran  commonly  as  high  as  your  head,  so  that 
a  great  part  of  the  time  you  could  not  launch  a  boat 
there,  and  even  in  the  calmest  weather  the  waves  run 


348  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

six  or  eight  feet  up  the  beach,  though  then  you  could 
get  off  on  a  plank.  Champlain  and  Poutrincourt 
could  not  land  here  in  1606,  on  account  of  the  swell 
(la  houlle),  yet  the  savages  came  off  to  them  in  a 
canoe.  In  the  Sieur  de  la  Borde's  Relation  des  Co* 
raibes,  my  edition  of  which  was  published  at  Amster 
dam  in  1711,  at  page  530  he  says  :  — 

"  Couroumon  a  Caraibe,  also  a  star  [i.  e.  a  god], 
makes  the  great  lames  a  la  mer,  and  overturns  canoes. 
Lames  a  la  mer  are  the  long  vagues  which  are  not 
broken  (entrecoupees),  and  such  as  one  sees  come  to 
land  all  in  one  piece,  from  one  end  of  a  beach  to 
another,  so  that,  however  little  wind  there  may  be,  a 
shallop  or  a  canoe  could  hardly  land  (aborder  terre) 
without  turning  over,  or  being  filled  with  water." 

But  on  the  Bay  side  the  water  even  at  its  edge  is 
often  as  smooth  and  still  as  in  a  pond.  Commonly 
there  are  no  boats  used  along  this  beach.  There  was  a 
boat  belonging  to  the  Highland  Light  which  the  next 
keeper  after  he  had  been  there  a  year  had  not  launched, 
though  he  said  that  there  was  good  fishing  just  off 
the  shore.  Generally  the  life  boats  cannot  be  used 
when  needed.  When  the  waves  run  very  high  it  is 
impossible  to  get  a  boat  off,  however  skilfully  you 
steer  it,  for  it  will  often  be  completely  covered  by  the 
curving  edge  of  an  approaching  breaker  as  by  an 
arch,  and  so  filled  with  water,  or  it  will  be  lifted  up 
by  its  bows,  turned  directly  over  backwards,  and  all 
the  contents  spilled  out.  A  spar  thirty  feet  long  is 
served  in  the  same  way. 

I  heard  of  a  party  who  went  off  fishing  back  of 
Wellfleet  some  years  ago,  in  two  boats,  in  calm  wea 
ther,  who,  when  they  had  laden  their  boats  with  fish, 
and  approached  the  land  again,  found  such  a  swell 


THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  349 

breaking  on  it,  though  there  was  no  wind,  that  they 
were  afraid  to  enter  it.  At  first  they  thought  to  pull 
for  Provincetown,  but  night  was  coming  on,  and  that 
was  many  miles  distant.  Their  case  seemed  a  desper 
ate  one.  As  often  as  they  approached  the  shore  and 
saw  the  terrible  breakers  that  intervened,  they  were 
deterred.  In  short,  they  were  thoroughly  frightened. 
Finally,  having  thrown  their  fish  overboard,  those  in 
one  boat  chose  a  favorable  opportunity,  and  succeeded, 
by  skill  and  good  luck,  in  reaching  the  land ;  but  they 
were  unwilling  to  take  the  responsibility  of  telling  the 
others  when  to  come  in,  and  as  the  other  helmsman 
was  inexperienced,  their  boat  was  swamped  at  once, 
yet  all  managed  to  save  themselves. 

Much  smaller  waves  soon  make  a  boat  "  nail-sick," 
as  the  phrase  is.  The  keeper  said  that  after  a  long 
and  strong  blow  there  would  be  three  large  waves, 
each  successively  larger  than  the  last,  and  then  no 
large  ones  for  some  time,  and  that,  when  they  wished 
to  land  in  a  boat,  they  came  in  on  the  last  and  largest 
wave.  Sir  Thomas  Browne  (as  quoted  in  Brand's 
Popular  Antiquities,  p.  372),  on  the  subject  of  the 
tenth  wave  being  "  greater  or  more  dangerous  than 
any  other,"  after  quoting  Ovid,  — 

"  Qui  venit  hie  fluctus,  fluctus  supereminet  omncs 
Posterior  110110  est,  uudecimo  que  prior,"  — 

says,  "  Which,  notwithstanding,  is  evidently  false  i 
nor  can  it  be  made  out  either  by  observation  either 
upon  the  shore  or  the  ocean,  as  we  have  with  diligence 
explored  in  both.  And  surely  in  vain  we  expect  reg 
ularity  in  the  waves  of  the  sea,  or  in  the  particular 
motions  thereof,  as  we  may  in  its  general  reciproca 
tions,  whose  causes  are  constant,  and  effects  therefore 


350  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

correspondent ;  whereas  its  fluctuations  are  but  mo 
tions  subservient,  which  winds,  storms,  shores,  shelves, 
and  every  interjaceiicy,  irregulates." 

We  read  that  the  Clay  Pounds  were  so  called  "  be 
cause  vessels  have  had  the  misfortune  to  be  pounded 
against  it  in  gales  of  wind,"  which  we  regard  as  a 
doubtful  derivation.  There  are  small  ponds  here, 
upheld  by  the  clay,  which  were  formerly  called  the 
Clay  Pits.  Perhaps  this,  or  Clay  Ponds,  is  the  origin 
of  the  name.  Water  is  found  in  the  clay  quite  near 
the  surface  ;  but  we  heard  of  one  man  who  had  sunk 
a  well  in  the  sand  close  by,  "  till  he  could  see  stars  at 
noonday,"  without  finding  any.  Over  this  bare  High 
land  the  wind  has  full  sweep.  Even  in  July  it  blows 
the  wings  over  the  heads  of  the  young  turkeys,  which 
do  not  know  enough  to  head  against  it ;  and  in  gales 
the  doors  and  windows  are  blown  in,  and  you  must 
hold  on  to  the  lighthouse  to  prevent  being  blown  into 
the  Atlantic.  They  who  merely  keep  out  on  the 
beach  in  a  storm  in  the  winter  are  sometimes  rewarded 
by  the  Humane  Society.  If  you  would  feel  the  full 
force  of  a  tempest,  take  up  your  residence  on  the  top 
of  Mount  Washington,  or  at  the  Highland  Light,  in 
Truro. 

It  was  said  in  1794  that  more  vessels  were  cast 
away  on  the  east  shore  of  Truro  than  anywhere  in 
Barnstable  County.  Notwithstanding  that  this  light 
house  has  since  been  erected,  after  almost  every  storm 
we  read  of  one  or  more  vessels  wrecked  here,  and 
sometimes  more  than  a  dozen  wrecks  are  visible  from 
this  point  at  one  time.  The  inhabitants  hear  the 
crash  of  vessels  going  to  pieces  as  they  sit  round  their 
hearths,  and  they  commonly  date  from  some  memora 
ble  shipwreck.  If  the  history  of  this  beach  could  be 


THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  351 

written  from  beginning  to  end,  it  would  be  a  thrilling 
page  in  the  history  of  commerce. 

Truro  was  settled  in  the  year  1700  as  Dangerfield. 
This  was  a  very  appropriate  name,  for  I  afterward 
read  on  a  monument  in  the  graveyard,  near  Pamet 
River,  the  following  inscription :  — 

Sacred 

to  the  memory  of 

57  citizens  of  Truro, 

who  were  lost  in  seven 

vessels,  which 

foundered  at  sea  in 

the  memorable  gale 

of  Oct.  3d,  1841. 

Their  names  and  ages  by  families  were  recorded  on 
different  sides  of  the  stone.  They  are  said  to  have 
been  lost  on  Georges  Bank,  and  I  was  told  that  only 
one  vessel  drifted  ashore  on  the  back  side  of  the  Cape, 
with  the  boys  locked  into  the  cabin  and  drowned.  It 
is  said  that  the  homes  of  all  were  "  within  a  circuit  of 
two  miles."  Twenty-eight  inhabitants  of  Dennis  were 
lost  in  the  same  gale ;  and  I  read  that  "  in  one  day, 
immediately  after  this  storm,  nearly  or  quite  one  hun 
dred  bodies  were  taken  up  and  buried  on  Cape  Cod." 
The  Truro  Insurance  Company  failed  £or  want  of 
skippers  to  take  charge  of  its  vessels.  But  the  sur 
viving  inhabitants  went  a-fishing  again  the  next  year 
as  usual.  I  found  that  it  would  not  do  to  speak  of 
shipwrecks  there,  for  almost  every  family  has  lost 
some  of  its  members  at  sea.  "  Who  lives  in  that 
house  ?  "  I  inquired.  "  Three  widows,"  was  the  reply. 
The  stranger  and  the  inhabitant  view  the  shore  with 
very  different  eyes.  The  former  may  have  come  to 
see  and  admire  the  ocean  in  a  storm ;  but  the  latter 


352  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

looks  on  it  as  the  scene  where  his  nearest  relatives 
were  wrecked.  When  I  remarked  to  an  old  wrecker 
partially  blind,  who  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
bank,  smoking  a  pipe,  which  he  had  just  lit  with  a 
match  of  dried  beach-grass,  that  I  supposed  he  liked 
to  hear  the  sound  of  the  surf,  he  answered  :  "  No,  I 
do  not  like  to  hear  the  sound  of  the  surf."  He  had 
lost  at  least  one  son  in  "the  memorable  gale,"  and 
could  tell  many  a  tale  of  the  shipwrecks  which  he  had 
witnessed  there. 

In  the  year  1717  a  noted  pirate  named  Bellamy 
was  led  on  to  the  bar  off  Wellfleet  by  the  captain  of 
a  snow  which  he  had  taken,  to  whom  he  had  offered 
his  vessel  again  if  he  would  pilot  him  into  Province- 
town  Harbor.  Tradition  says  that  the  latter  threw 
over  a  burning  tar  barrel  in  the  night,  which  drifted 
ashore,  and  the  pirates  followed  it.  A  storm  coming 
on,  their  whole  fleet  was  wrecked,  and  more  than  a 
hundred  dead  bodies  lay  along  the  shore.  Six  who 
escaped  shipwreck  were  executed.  "  At  times,  to  this 
day  "  (1793),  says  the  historian  of  Wellfleet,1  "  there 
are  King  William  and  Queen  Mary's  coppers  picked 
up,  and  pieces  of  silver  called  cob-money.  The  vio 
lence  of  the  seas  moves  the  sands  on  the  outer  bar,  so 
that  at  times  the  iron  caboose  of  the  ship  [that  is,  Bel 
lamy's]  at  low  ebbs  has  been  seen."  Another  tells  us 
that  "  for  many  years  after  this  shipwreck,  a  man  of 
a  very  singular  and  frightful  aspect  used  every  spring 
and  autumn  to  be  seen  travelling  on  the  Cape,  who 
was  supposed  to  have  been  one  of  Bellamy's  crew. 
The  presumption  is  that  he  went  to  some  place  where 
money  had  been  secreted  by  the  pirates,  to  get  such 
a  supply  as  his  exigencies  required.  When  he  died, 

1  Levi  Whitman  in  Mass.  Hist.  Soc.  Coll.,  1st  series,  vol.  iii. 


THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  353 

many  pieces  of  gold  were  found  in  a  girdle  which  he 
constantly  wore." 

As  I  was  walking  on  the  beach  here  in  my  last 
visit,  looking  for  shells  and  pebbles,  just  after  that 
storm  which  I  have  mentioned  as  moving  the  sand  to 
a  great  depth,  not  knowing  but  I  might  find  some 
cob-money,  I  did  actually  pick  up  a  French  crown 
piece,  worth  about  a  dollar  and  six  cents,  near  high 
water  mark,  on  the  still  moist  sand,  just  under  the 
abrupt,  caving  base  of  the  bank.  It  was  a  dark  slate 
color,  and  looked  like  a  flat  pebble,  but  still  bore  a 
very  distinct  and  handsome  head  of  Louis  XV.,  and 
the  usual  legend  on  the  reverse,  Sit  JVomen  Domini 
Benedictum  (Blessed  be  the  Name  of  the  Lord),  a 
pleasing  sentiment  to  read  in  the  sands  of  the  sea 
shore,  whatever  it  might  be  stamped  on,  and  I  also 
made  out  the  date,  1741.  Of  course,  I  thought  at 
first  that  it  was  that  same  old  button  which  I  have 
found  so  many  times,  but  my  knife  soon  showed  the 
silver.  Afterwards,  rambling  on  the  bars  at  low  tide, 
I  cheated  my  companion  by  holding  up  round  shells 
(Scutellce)  between  my  fingers,  whereupon  he  quickly 
stripped  and  came  off  to  me. 

In  the  Revolution,  a  British  ship  of  war  called  the 
Somerset  was  wrecked  near  the  Clay  Pounds,  and  all 
on  board,  some  hundreds  in  number,  were  taken  pris 
oners.  My  informant  said  that  he  had  never  seen  any 
mention  of  this  in  the  histories,  but  that  at  any  rate 
he  knew  of  a  silver  watch,  which  one  of  those  prison 
ers  by  accident  left  there,  which  was  still  going  to  tell 
the  story.  But  this  event  is  noticed  by  some  writers. 

The  next  summer  I  saw  a  sloop  from  Chatham  drag 
ging  for  anchors  and  chains  just  off  this  shore.  She 
had  her  boats  out  at  the  work  while  she  shuffled  about 


354  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

on  various  tacks,  and,  when  anything  was  found,  drew 
up  to  hoist  it  on  board.  It  is  a  singular  employment, 
at  which  men  are  regularly  hired  and  paid  for  their 
industry,  to  hunt  to-day  in  pleasant  weather  for  an 
chors  which  have  been  lost,  —  the  sunken  faith  and 
hope  of  mariners,  to  which  they  trusted  in  vain  ;  now, 
perchance,  it  is  the  rusty  one  of  some  old  pirate's  ship 
or  Norman  fisherman,  whose  cable  parted  here  two 
hundred  years  ago  ;  and  now  the  best  bower  anchor 
of  a  Canton  or  a  California  ship,  which  has  gone 
about  her  business.  If  the  roadsteads  of  the  spiritual 
ocean  could  be  thus  dragged,  what  rusty  flukes  of 
hope  deceived  and  parted  chain-cables  of  faith  might 
again  be  windlassed  aboard  !  enough  to  sink  the  find 
er's  craft,  or  stock  new  navies  to  the  end  of  time. 
The  bottom  of  the  sea  is  strewn  with  anchors,  some 
deeper  and  some  shallower,  and  alternately  covered 
and  uncovered  by  the  sand,  perchance  with  a  small 
length  of  iron  cable  still  attached,  —  to  which  where 
is  the  other  end  ?  So  many  unconcluded  tales  to  be 
continued  another  time.  So,  if  we  had  diving-bells 
adapted  to  the  spiritual  deeps,  we  should  see  anchors 
with  their  cables  attached,  as  thick  as  eels  in  vinegar, 
all  wriggling  vainly  toward  their  holding-ground. 
But  that  is  not  treasure  for  us  which  another  man  has 
lost ;  rather  it  is  for  us  to  seek  what  no  other  man  has 
found  or  can  find,  —  not  be  Chatham  men  dragging 
for  anchors. 

The  Annals  of  this  voracious  beach !  who  could 
write  them,  unless  it  were  a  shipwrecked  sailor  ? 
How  many  who  have  seen  it  have  seen  it  only  in  the 
midst  of  danger  and  distress,  the  last  strip  of  earth 
which  their  mortal  eyes  beheld !  Think  of  the  amount 
of  suffering  which  a  single  strand  has  witnessed.  The 


THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  355 

ancients  would  have  represented  it  as  a  sea-monster 
with  open  jaws,  more  terrible  than  Scylla  and  Charyb- 
dis.  An  inhabitant  of  Truro  told  me  that  about  a 
fortnight  after  the  St.  John  was  wrecked  at  Cohasset 
he  found  two  bodies  on  the  shore  at  the  Clay  Pounds. 
They  were  those  of  a  man  and  a  corpulent  woman. 
The  man  had  thick  boots  on,  though  his  head  was  off, 
but  "  it  was  alongside."  It  took  the  finder  some 
weeks  to  get  over  the  sight.  Perhaps  they  were  man 
and  wife,  and  whom  God  had  joined  the  ocean  cur 
rents  had  not  put  asunder.  Yet  by  what  slight  acci 
dents  at  first  may  they  have  been  associated  in  their 
drifting.  Some  of  the  bodies  of  those  passengers 
were  picked  up  far  out  at  sea,  boxed  up  and  sunk ; 
some  brought  ashore  and  buried.  There  are  more 
consequences  to  a  shipwreck  than  the  underwriters 
notice.  The  Gulf  Stream  may  return  some  to  their 
native  shores,  or  drop  them  in  some  out-of-the-way 
cave  of  Ocean,  where  time  and  the  elements  will  write 
new  riddles  with  their  bones.  —  But  to  return  to  land 
again. 

In  this  bank,  above  the  clay,  I  counted  in  the  sum 
mer  two  hundred  holes  of  the  bank  swallow  within  a 
space  six  rods  long,  and  there  were  at  least  one  thou 
sand  old  birds  within  three  times  that  distance,  twit 
tering  over  the  surf.  I  had  never  associated  them  in 
my  thoughts  with  the  beach  before.  One  little  boy 
who  had  been  a-bird's-nesting  had  got  eighty  swallows' 
eggs  for  his  share  !  Tell  it  not  to  the  Humane  Soci 
ety.  There  were  many  young  birds  on  the  clay  be 
neath,  which  had  tumbled  out  and  died.  Also  there 
were  many  crow-blackbirds  hopping  about  in  the  dry 
fields,  and  the  upland  plover  were  breeding  close  by 
the  light-house.  The  keeper  had  once  cut  off  one's 


356  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

wing  while  mowing,  as  she  sat  on  her  eggs  there.  This 
is  also  a  favorite  resort  for  gunners  in  the  fall  to  shoot 
the  golden  plover.  As  around  the  shores  of  a  pond 
are  seen  devil's-needles,  butterflies,  etc.,  so  here,  to 
my  surprise,  I  saw  at  the  same  season  great  devil's- 
needles  of  a  size  proportionably  larger,  or  nearly  as 
big  as  my  finger,  incessantly  coasting  up  and  down 
the  edge  of  the  bank,  and  butterflies  also  were  hover 
ing  over  it,  and  I  never  saw  so  many  dor-bugs  and 
beetles  of  various  kinds  as  strewed  the  beach.  They 
had  apparently  flown  over  the  bank  in  the  night,  and 
could  not  get  up  again,  and  some  had  perhaps  fallen 
into  the  sea  and  were  washed  ashore.  They  may  have 
been  in  part  attracted  by  the  lighthouse  lamps. 

The  Clay  Pounds  are  a  more  fertile  tract  than 
usual.  We  saw  some  fine  patches  of  roots  and  corn 
here.  As  generally  on  the  Cape,  the  plants  had  little 
stalk  or  leaf,  but  ran  remarkably  to  seed.  The  corn 
was  hardly  more  than  half  as  high  as  in  the  interior, 
yet  the  ears  were  large  and  full,  and  one  farmer  told 
us  that  he  could  raise  forty  bushels  on  an  acre  with 
out  manure,  and  sixty  with  it.  The  heads  of  the  rye 
also  were  remarkably  large.  The  shadbush  (Amelan- 
cAier),  beach  plums,  and  blueberries  ( Vaccinium 
fennsylvanicum^),  like  the  apple-trees  and  oaks,  were 
very  dwarfish,  spreading  over  the  sand,  but  at  the 
same  time  very  fruitful.  The  blueberry  was  but  an 
inch  or  two  high,  and  its  fruit  often  rested  on  the 
ground,  so  that  you  did  not  suspect  the  presence  of 
the  bushes,  even  on  those  bare  hills,  until  you  were 
treading  on  them.  I  thought  that  this  fertility  must 
be  owing  mainly  to  the  abundance  of  moisture  in  the 
atmosphere,  for  I  observed  that  what  little  grass  there 
was  was  remarkably  laden  with  dew  in  the  morning, 


THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  357 

and  in  summer  dense  imprisoning  fogs  frequently  last 
till  midday,  turning  one's  beard  into  a  wet  napkin 
about  his  throat,  and  the  oldest  inhabitant  may  lose  his 
way  within  a  stone's  throw  of  his  house  or  be  obliged 
to  follow  the  beach  for  a  guide.  The  brick  house 
attached  to  the  lighthouse  was  exceedingly  damp  at 
that  season,  and  writing-paper  lost  all  its  stiffness  in 
it.  It  was  impossible  to  dry  your  towel  after  bathing, 
or  to  press  flowers  without  their  mildewing.  The  air 
was  so  moist  that  we  rarely  wished  to  drink,  though 
we  could  at  all  times  taste  the  salt  on  our  lips.  Salt 
was  rarely  used  at  table,  and  our  host  told  us  that  his 
cattle  invariably  refused  it  when  it  was  offered  them, 
they  got  so  much  with  their  grass  and  at  every  breath, 
but  he  said  that  a  sick  horse  or  one  just  from  the 
country  would  sometimes  take  a  hearty  draught  of 
salt  water,  and  seemed  to  like  it  and  be  the  better  for 
it. 

It  was  surprising  to  see  how  much  water  was  con 
tained  in  the  terminal  bud  of  the  seaside  golden  rod, 
standing  in  the  sand  early  in  July,  and  also  how  tur 
nips,  beets,  carrots,  etc.,  flourished  even  in  pure  sand. 
A  man  travelling  by  the  shore  near  there  not  long 
before  us  noticed  something  green  growing  in  the  pure 
sand  of  the  beach,  just  at  high  water  mark,  and  on 
approaching  found  it  to  be  a  bed  of  beets  flourishing 
vigorously,  probably  from  seed  washed  out  of  the 
Franklin.  Also  beets  and  turnips  came  up  in  the  sea 
weed  used  for  manure  in  many  parts  of  the  Cape. 
This  suggests  how  various  plants  may  have  been  dis 
persed  over  the  world  to  distant  islands  and  conti 
nents.  Vessels,  with  seeds  in  their  cargoes,  destined 
for  particular  ports,  where  perhaps  they  were  not 
needed,  have  been  cast  away  on  desolate  islands,  and, 


358  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

though  their  crews  perished,  some  of  their  seeds  have 
been  preserved.  Out  of  many  kinds  a  few  would  find 
a  soil  and  climate  adapted  to  them,  —  become  natural 
ized,  and  perhaps  drive  out  the  native  plants  at  last, 
and  so  fit  the  land  for  the  habitation  of  man.  It  is 
an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  any  good,  and  for  the 
time  lamentable  shipwrecks  may  thus  contribute  a  new 
vegetable  to  a  continent's  stock,  and  prove  on  the 
whole  a  lasting  blessing  to  its  inhabitants.  Or  winds 
and  currents  might  effect  the  same  without  the  inter 
vention  of  man.  What  are  the  various  succulent 
plants  which  grow  on  the  beach  but  such  beds  of  beets 
and  turnips,  sprung  originally  from  seeds  which  per 
haps  were  cast  on  the  waters  for  this  end,  though  we 
do  not  know  the  Franklin  which  they  came  out  of  ? 
In  ancient  times  some  Mr.  Bell  (?)  was  sailing  this 
way  in  his  ark  with»  seeds  of  rocket,  saltwort,  sand- 
wort,  beach-grass,  samphire,  bayberry,  poverty-grass, 
etc.,  all  nicely  labelled  with  directions,  intending  to 
establish  a  nursery  somewhere ;  and  did  not  a  nursery 
get  established,  though  he  thought  that  he  had  failed? 
About  the  lighthouse  I  observed  in  the  summer  the 
pretty  Poly  gala  polygama,  spreading  ray-wise  flat  on 
the  ground,  white  pasture  thistles  (Oirsium  pumi- 
lum),  and  amid  the  shrubbery  the  Smilax  glauca, 
which  is  commonly  said  not  to  grow  so  far  north; 
near  the  edge  of  the  banks  about  half  a  mile  south 
ward,  the  broom  crowberry  (Empetrum  Conradii)^ 
for  which  Plymouth  is  the  only  locality  in  Massachu 
setts  usually  named,  forms  pretty  green  mounds  four 
or  five  feet  in  diameter  by  one  foot  high,  —  soft 
springy  beds  for  the  wayfarer ;  I  saw  it  afterward  in 
Provincetown  ;  but  prettiest  of  all  the  scarlet  pimper 
nel,  or  poor  man's  weather-glass  (^Anagallis  amen* 


THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  359 

sis),  greets  you  in  fair  weather  on  almost  every  square 
yard  of  sand.  From  Yarmouth  I  have  received  the 
Chrysopsis  falcata  (golden  aster),  and  Vaccinium 
stamineum  (deerberry  or  squaw  huckleberry),  with 
fruit  not  edible,  sometimes  as  large  as  a  cranberry 
(Sept.  7). 

The  Highland  Lighthouse,1  where  we  were  staying, 
is  a  substantial -looking  building  of  brick,  painted 
white,  and  surmounted  by  an  iron  cap.  Attached  to 
it  is  the  dwelling  of  the  keeper,  one  story  high,  also  of 
brick,  and  built  by  government.  As  we  were  going 
to  spend  the  night  in  a  lighthouse,  we  wished  to  make 
the  most  of  so  novel  an  experience,  and  therefore  told 
our  host  that  we  would  like  to  accompany  him  when 
he  went  to  light  up.  At  rather  early  candle-light  he 
lighted  a  small  Japan  lamp,  allowing  it  to  smoke 
rather  more  than  we  like  on  ordinary  occasions,  and 
told  us  to  follow  him.  He  led  the  way  first  through 
his  bedroom,  which  was  placed  nearest  to  the  light 
house,  and  then  through  a  long,  narrow,  covered  pas 
sage-way,  between  whitewashed  walls  like  a  prison 
entry,  into  the  lower  part  of  the  lighthouse,  where 
many  great  butts  of  oil  were  arranged  around  ;  thence 
we  ascended  by  a  winding  and  open  iron  stairway, 
with  a  steadily  increasing  scent  of  oil  and  lamp- 
smoke,  to  a  trap-door  in  an  iron  floor,  and  through 
this  into  the  lantern.  It  was  a  neat  building,  with 
everything  in  apple-pie  order,  and  no  danger  of  any 
thing  rusting  there  for  want  of  oil.  The  light  con 
sisted  of  fifteen  argand  lamps,  placed  within  smooth 
concave  reflectors  twenty-one  inches  in  diameter,  and 
arranged  in  two  horizontal  circles  one  above  the  other, 

1  The  lighthouse  has  since  been  rebuilt,  and  shows  a  Fresnel 
light.  —  H.  D.  T. 


360  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

facing  every  way  excepting  directly  down  the  Cape. 
These  were  surrounded,  at  a  distance  of  two  or  three 
feet,  by  large  plate-glass  windows,  which  defied  the 
storms,  with  iron  sashes,  on  which  rested  the  iron  cap. 
All  the  iron  work  except  the  floor  was  painted  white. 
And  thus  the  lighthouse  was  completed.  We  walked 
slowly  round  in  that  narrow  space  as  the  keeper 
lighted  each  lamp  in  succession,  conversing  with  him 
at  the  same  moment  that  many  a  sailor  on  the  deep 
witnessed  the  lighting  of  the  Highland  Light.  His 
duty  was  to  fill  and  trim  and  light  his  lamps,  and 
keep  bright  the  reflectors.  He  filled  them  every  morn 
ing,  and  trimmed  them  commonly  once  in  the  course 
of  the  night.  He  complained  of  the  quality  of  the  oil 
which  was  furnished.  This  house  consumes  about 
eight  hundred  gallons  in  a  year,  which  cost  not  far 
from  one  dollar  a  gallon ;  but  perhaps  a  few  lives 
would  be  saved  if  better  oil  were  provided.  Another 
lighthouse  keeper  said  that  the  same  proportion  of 
winter-strained  oil  was  sent  to  the  southernmost  light 
house  in  the  Union  as  to  the  most  northern.  For 
merly,  when  this  lighthouse  had  windows  with  small 
and  thin  panes,  a  severe  storm  would  sometimes  break 
the  glass,  and  then  they  were  obliged  to  put  up  a 
wooden  shutter  in  haste  to  save  their  lights  and  reflec 
tors,  —  and  sometimes  in  tempests,  when  the  mariner 
stood  most  in  need  of  their  guidance,  they  had  thus 
nearly  converted  the  lighthouse  into  a  dark  lantern, 
which  emitted  only  a  few  feeble  rays,  and  those  com 
monly  on  the  land  or  lee  side.  He  spoke  of  the  anxi 
ety  and  sense  of  responsibility  which  he  felt  in  cold 
and  stormy  nights  in  the  winter,  when  he  knew  that 
many  a  poor  fellow  was  depending  on  him,  and  his 
lamps  burned  dimly,  the  oil  being  chilled.  Some- 


THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  361 

times  he  was  obliged  to  warm  the  oil  in  a  kettle  in  his 
house  at  midnight,  and  fill  his  lamps  over  again,  —  for 
he  could  not  have  a  fire  in  the  lighthouse,  it  produced 
such  a  sweat  on  the  windows.  His  successor  told  me 
that  he  could  not  keep  too  hot  a  fire  in  such  a  case. 
All  this  because  the  oil  was  poor.  A  government 
lighting  the  mariners  on  its  wintry  coast  with  summer- 
strained  oil,  to  save  expense !  That  were  surely  a 
summer-strained  mercy. 

This  keeper's  successor,  who  kindly  entertained  me 
the  next  year,  stated  that  one  extremely  cold  night, 
when  this  and  all  the  neighboring  lights  were  burning 
summer  oil,  but  he  had  been  provident  enough  to 
reserve  a  little  winter  oil  against  emergencies,  he  was 
waked  up  with  anxiety,  and  found  that  his  oil  was 
congealed,  and  his  lights  almost  extinguished ;  and 
when,  after  many  hours'  exertion,  he  had  succeeded  in 
replenishing  his  reservoirs  with  winter  oil  at  the  wick 
end,  and  with  difficulty  had  made  them  burn,  he 
looked  out  and  found  that  the  other  lights  in  the 
neighborhood,  which  were  usually  visible  to  him,  had 
gone  out,  and  he  heard  afterward  that  the  Pamet 
River  and  Billingsgate  Lights  also  had  been  extin 
guished. 

Our  host  said  that  the  frost,  too,  on  the  windows 
caused  him  much  trouble,  and  in  sultry  summer  nights 
the  moths  covered  them  and  dimmed  his  lights ;  some 
times  even  small  birds  flew  against  the  thick  plate 
glass,  and  were  found  on  the  ground  beneath  in  the 
morning  with  their  necks  broken.  In  the  spring  of 
1855  he  found  nineteen  small  yellowbirds,  perhaps 
goldfinches  or  myrtle-birds,  thus  lying  dead  around 
the  lighthouse ;  and  sometimes  in  the  fall  he  had  seen 
where  a  golden  plover  had  struck  the  glass  in  the 


362  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU. 

night,  and  left  the  down  and  the  fatty  part  of  its 
breast  on  it. 

Thus  he  struggled,  by  every  method,  to  keep  his 
light  shining  before  men.  Surely  the  lighthouse 
keeper  has  a  responsible,  if  an  easy,  office.  When  his 
lamp  goes  out,  he  goes  out ;  or,  at  most,  only  one  such 
accident  is  pardoned. 

I  thought  it  a  pity  that  some  poor  student  did  not 
live  there,  to  profit  by  all  that  light,  since  he  would 
not  rob  the  mariner.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  do  some 
times  come  up  here  and  read  the  newspaper  when  they 
are  noisy  down  below."  Think  of  fifteen  argand 
lamps  to  read  the  newspaper  by !  Government  oil !  — 
light  enough,  perchance,  to  read  the  Constitution  by ! 
I  thought  that  he  should  read  nothing  less  than  his 
Bible  by  that  light.  I  had  a  classmate 1  who  fitted  for 
college  by  the  lamps  of  a  lighthouse,  which  was  more 
light,  we  think,  than  the  University  afforded. 

When  we  had  come  down  and  walked  a  dozen  rods 
from  the  lighthouse,  we  found  that  we  could  not  get 
the  full  strength  of  its  light  on  the  narrow  strip  of 
land  between  it  and  the  shore,  being  too  low  for  the 
focus,  and  we  saw  only  so  many  feeble  and  rayless 
stars ;  but  at  forty  rods  inland  we  could  see  to  read, 
though  we  were  still  indebted  to  only  one  lamp. 
Each  reflector  sent  forth  a  separate  "  fan  "  of  light, 
—  one  shone  on  the  windmill,  and  one  in  the  hollow, 
while  the  intervening  spaces  were  in  shadow.  This 
light  is  said  to  be  visible  twenty  nautical  miles  and 
more,  from  an  observer  fifteen  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  sea.  We  could  see  the  revolving  light  at  Race 
Point,  the  end  of  the  Cape,  about  nine  miles  distant, 

1  C.  G.  Thomas,  who  lately  died  iii  Cambridge,  where  he  was 
commonly  called  Lighthouse  Thomas. 


THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  363 

and  also  the  light  on  Long  Point  at  the  entrance  of 
Provincetown  Harbor,  and  one  of  the  distant  Plym 
outh  Harbor  Lights,  across  the  Bay,  nearly  in  a  range 
with  the  last,  like  a  star  in  the  horizon.  The  keeper 
thought  that  the  other  Plymouth  Light  was  concealed 
by  being  exactly  in  a  range  with  the  Long  Point 
Light.  He  told  us  that  the  mariner  was  sometimes 
led  astray  by  a  mackerel  fisher's  lantern,  who  was 
afraid  of  being  run  down  in  the  night,  or  even  by  a 
cottager's  light,  mistaking  them  for  some  well-known 
light  on  the  coast,  and,  when  he  discovered  his  mis 
take,  was  wont  to  curse  the  prudent  fisher  or  the  wake 
ful  cottager  without  reason. 

Though  it  was  once  declared  that  Providence,  placed 
this  mass  of  clay  here  on  purpose  to  erect  a  light 
house  on,  the  keeper  said  that  the  lighthouse  should 
have  been  erected  half  a  mile  farther  south,  where 
the  coast  begins  to  bend,  and  where  the  light  could 
be  seen  at  the  same  time  with  the  Nauset  Lights,  and 
distinguished  from  them.  They  now  talk  of  building 
one  there.  It  happens  that  the  present  one  is  the 
more  useless  now,  so  near  the  extremity  of  the  Cape, 
because  other  lighthouses  have  since  been  erected 
there. 

Among  the  many  regulations  of  the  Lighthouse 
Board,  hanging  against  the  wall  here,  many  of  them 
excellent,  perhaps,  if  there  were  a  regiment  stationed 
here  to  attend  to  them,  there  is  one  requiring  the 
keeper  to  keep  an  account  of  the  number  of  vessels 
which  pass  his  light  during  the  day.  But  there  are 
a  hundred  vessels  in  sight  at  once,  steering  in  all  di 
rections,  many  on  the  very  verge  of  the  horizon,  and 
he  must  have  more  eyes  than  Argus,  and  be  a  good 
deal  farther-sighted,  to  tell  which  are  passing  his 


364  HENRY  DAVID   THOREAU, 

light.  It  is  an  employment  in  some  respects  best 
suited  to  the  habits  of  the  gulls  which  coast  up  and 
down  here,  and  circle  over  the  sea. 

I  was  told  by  the  next  keeper,  that  on  the  8th  of 
June  following,  a  particularly  clear  and  beautiful 
morning,  he  rose  about  half  an  hour  before  sunrise, 
and  having  a  little  time  to  spare,  for  his  custom  was 
to  extinguish  his  lights  at  sunrise,  walked  down 
toward  the  shore  to  see  what  he  might  find.  When 
he  got  to  the  edge  of  the  bank  he  looked  up,  and,  to 
his  astonishment,  saw  the  sun  rising,  and  already  part 
way  above  the  horizon.  Thinking  that  his  clock  was 
wrong,  he  made  haste  back,  and  though  it  was  still 
too  early  by  the  clock,  extinguished  his  lamps,  and 
when  he  had  got  through  and  come  down,  he  looked 
out  the  window,  and,  to  his  still  greater  astonishment, 
saw  the  sun  just  where  it  was  before,  two  thirds  above 
the  horizon.  He  showed  me  where  its  rays  fell  on 
the  wall  across  the  room.  He  proceeded  to  make  a 
fire,  and  when  he  had  done,  there  was  the  sun  still  at 
the  same  height.  Whereupon,  not  trusting  to  his 
own  eyes  any  longer,  he  called  up  his  wife  to  look  at 
it,  and  she  saw  it  also.  There  were  vessels  in  sight 
on  the  ocean,  and  their  crews,  too,  he  said,  must  have 
seen  it,  for  its  rays  fell  on  them.  It  remained  at 
that  height  for  about  fifteen  minutes  by  the  clock, 
and  then  rose  as  usual  and  nothing  else  extraordinary 
happened  during  that  day.  Though  accustomed  to 
the  coast,  he  had  never  witnessed  nor  heard  of  such 
a  phenomenon  before.  I  suggested  that  there  might 
have  been  a  cloud  in  the  horizon  invisible  to  him, 
which  rose  with  the  sun,  and  his  clock  was  only  as 
accurate  as  the  average  ;  or  perhaps,  as  he  denied  the 
possibility  of  this,  it  was  such  a  looming  of  the  sun 


THE  HIGHLAND  LIGHT.  365 

as  is  said  to  occur  at  Lake  Superior  and  elsewhere. 
Sir  John  Franklin,  for  instance,  says  in  his  Narrative, 
that  when  he  was  on  the  shore  of  the  Polar  Sea,  the 
horizontal  refraction  varied  so  much  one  morning 
that  "  the  upper  limb  of  the  sun  twice  appeared  at 
the  horizon  before  it  finally  rose." 

He  certainly  must  be  a  sun  of  Aurora  to  whom  the 
sun  looms,  when  there  are  so  many  millions  to  whom 
it  glooms  rather,  or  who  never  see  it  till  an  hour  after 
it  has  risen.  But  it  behooves  us  old  stagers  to  keep 
our  lamps  trimmed  and  burning  to  the  last,  and  not 
trust  to  the  sun's  looming. 

This  keeper  remarked  that  the  centre  of  the  flame 
should  be  exactly  opposite  the  centre  of  the  reflectors, 
and  that  accordingly,  if  he  was  not  careful  to  turn 
down  his  wicks  in  the  morning,  the  sun  falling  on  the 
reflectors  on  the  south  side  of  the  building  would  set 
fire  to  them,  like  a  burning-glass,  in  the  coldest  day, 
and  he  would  look  up  at  noon  and  see  them  all  lighted  ! 
When  your  lamp  is  ready  to  give  light,  it  is  readiest 
to  receive  it,  and  the  sun  will  light  it.  His  successor 
said  that  he  had  never  known  them  to  blaze  in  such 
a  case,  but  merely  to  smoke. 

I  saw  that  this  was  a  place  of  wonders.  In  a  sea 
turn  or  shallow  fog  while  I  was  there  the  next  sum 
mer,  it  being  clear  overhead,  the  edge  of  the  bank 
twenty  rods  distant  appeared  like  a  mountain  pasture 
in  the  horizon.  I  was  completely  deceived  by  it,  and 
I  could  then  understand  why  mariners  sometimes  ran 
ashore  in  such  cases,  especially  in  the  night,  suppos 
ing  it  to  be  far  away,  though  they  could  see  the  land. 
Once  since  this,  being  in  a  large  oyster  boat  two  or 
three  hundred  miles  from  here,  in  a  dark  night,  when 
there  was  a  thin  veil  of  mist  on  land  and  water,  we 


366  HENRY  DAVID   THOEEAU. 

came  so  near  to  running  on  to  the  land  before  our 
skipper  was  aware  of  it,  that  the  first  warning  was 
my  hearing  the  sound  of  the  surf  under  my  elbow. 
I  could  almost  have  jumped  ashore,  and  we  were 
obliged  to  go  about  very  suddenly  to  prevent  strik 
ing.  The  distant  light  for  which  we  were  steering, 
supposing  it  a  lighthouse  five  or  six  miles  off,  came 
through  the  cracks  of  a  fisherman's  bunk  not  more 
than  six  rods  distant. 

The  keeper  entertained  us  handsomely  in  his  soli 
tary  little  ocean-house.  He  was  a  man  of  singular 
patience  and  intelligence,  who,  when  our  queries 
struck  him,  rung  as  clear  as  a  bell  in  response.  The 
lighthouse  lamps  a  few  feet  distant  shone  full  into 
my  chamber,  and  made  it  as  bright  as  day,  so  I  knew 
exactly  how  the  Highland  Light  bore  all  that  night, 
and  I  was  in  no  danger  of  being  wrecked.  Unlike 
the  last,  this  was  as  still  as  a  summer  night.  I 
thought  as  I  lay  there,  half  awake  and  half  asleep, 
looking  upward  through  the  window  at  the  lights 
above  my  head,  how  many  sleepless  eyes  from  far  out 
on  the  Ocean  stream  —  mariners  of  all  nations  spin 
ning  their  yarns  through  the  various  watches  of  the 
night  —  were  directed  toward  my  couch. 


RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON. 


INTRODUCTION. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  was  born  in  Boston,  May  25, 
1803.  His  father,  his  grandfather,  and  his  great-grand 
father  were  all  ministers,  and,  indeed,  on  both  his  father's 
and  mother's  side  he  belonged  to  a  continuous  line  of  minis 
terial  descent  from  the  seventeenth  century.  At  the  time  of 
his  birth,  his  father,  the  Rev.  William  Emerson,  was  minis 
ter  of  the  First  Church  congregation,  but  on  his  death  a  fc~y 
years  afterward,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  a  boy  of  seven, 
went  to  live  in  the  old  manse  at  Concord,  where  his  grand 
father  had  lived  when  the  Concord  fight  occurred.  The  old 
manse  was  afterward  the  home  at  one  time  of  Hawthorne, 
who  wrote  there  the  stories  which  he  gathered  into  the  vol 
ume,  Mosses  from,  an  Old  Manse. 

Emerson  was  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1821,  and  after 
teaching  a  year  or  two  gave  himself  to  the  study  of  divinity. 
From  1827  to  1832  he  preached  in  Unitarian  churches,  and 
was  for  four  years  a  colleague  pastor  in  the  Second  Church 
in  Boston.  He  then  left  the  ministry  and  afterward  devoted 
himself  to  literature.  He  travelled  abroad  in  1833,  in  1847, 
and  again  in  1872,  making  friends  among  the  leading  think 
ers  during  his  first  journey,  and  confirming  the  friendships 
when  again  in  Europe ;  with  the  exception  of  these  three 
journeys  and  occasional  lecturing  tours  in  the  United  States, 
he  lived  quietly  at  Concord  until  his  death,  April  27,  1882. 

He  had  delivered  several  special  addresses,  and  in  his 
early  manhood  was  an  important  lecturer  in  the  Lyceum 


368  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.- 

courses  which  were  so  popular,  especially  in  New  England, 
forty  years  ago,  but  his  first  published  book  was  Nature,  in 

1839.  Subsequent  prose  writings  were  his  Essays,  under 
that  title,  and  in  several  volumes  with  specific  titles,  Repre 
sentative  Men,  and  English  Traits.     In  form  the  prose  is 
either  the  oration  or  the  essay,  with  one  exception.     Eng 
lish  Traits  records  the  observations  of  the  writer  after  his 
first  two  journeys  to  England  ;  and  while  it  may  loosely  be 
classed   among   essays,  it  has    certain  distinctive  features 
which  separate  it  from  the  essays  of  the  same  writer;  there 
is  in  it  narrative,  reminiscence,  and  description,  which  make 
it  more  properly  the  note-book  of  a  philosophic  traveller. 

It  may  be  said  of  his  essays  as  well  as  of  his  deliberate 
orajions  that  the  writer  never  was  wholly  unmindful  of  an 
audience ;  he  was  conscious  always  that  he  was  not  merely 
delivering  his  mind,  but  speaking  directly  to  men.  One  is 
aware  of  a  certain  pointedness  of  speech  which  turns  the 
writer  into  a  speaker,  and  the  printed  words  into  a  sounding 
voice. 

He  wrote  poems  when  in  college,  but  his  first  publication 
of  verse  was  through  The  Dial,  a  magazine  established  in 

1840,  and  the  representative  of  a  knot  of  men  and  women 
of  whom   Emerson  was   the    acknowledged  or  unacknow. 
ledged  leader.     The  first  volume   of  his  poems  was  pub 
lished  in   1847,   and  included  those  by   which  he  is  best 
known,  as  The  Problem,  The  Sphinx,  The  Rhodora,  The 
Humble  Bee,  Hymn  Sung  at  the  Completion  of  the  Con 
cord  Monument.     After  the  establishment  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  in  1857,  he  contributed  to  it  both  prose  and  poetry, 
and  verses  published  in  the  early  numbers,  mere  enigmas  to 
some,  profound  revelations  to  others,  were  fruitful  of  discus 
sion  and  thought ;  his  second  volume  of  poems,  May  Day 
and  other  Pieces,  was  not  issued  until  1867.     Since  then  a 
volume  of  his  collected  poetry  has  appeared,  containing  most 
of  those  published  in  the  two  volumes,  and  a  few  in  addi 
tion.     We  are  told,  however,  that  the  published  writings  of 


INTRODUCTION.  369 

Emerson  bear  but  small  proportion  to  the  unpublished. 
Many  lectures  have  been  delivered,  but  not  printed ;  many 
poems  written,  and  a  few  read,  which  have  never  been  pub 
lished.  The  inference  from  this,  borne  out  by  the  marks 
upon  what  has  been  published,  is  that  Mr.  Emerson  set  a 
high  value  upon  literature,  and  was  jealous  of  the  preroga 
tive  of  the  poet.  He  is  frequently  called  a  seer,  and  this 
old  word,  indicating  etymologically  its  original  intention,  is 
applied  well  to  a  poet  who  saw  into  nature  and  human  life 
with  a  spiritual  power  which  made  him  a  marked  man  in 
his  own  time,  and  one  destined  to  an  unrivalled  place  in  lit 
erature.  He  fulfilled  Wordsworth's  lines  :  — 

"  With  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things." 


BEHAVIOR. 

GRACE,  Beauty,  and  Caprice 

Build  this  golden  portal ; 

Graceful  women,  chosen  men, 

Dazzle  every  mortal : 

Their  sweet  and  lofty  countenance 

His  enchanting  food ; 

He  need  not  go  to  them,  their  forms 

Beset  his  solitude. 

He  looketh  seldom  in  their  face, 

His  eyes  explore  the  ground, 

The  green  grass  is  a  looking-glass 

Whereon  their  traits  are  found. 

Little  he  says  to  them, 

So  dances  his  heart  in  his  breast, 

Their  tranquil  mien  bereaveth  him 

Of  wit,  of  words,  of  rest. 

Too  weak  to  win,  too  fond  to  shun 

The  tyrants  of  his  doom, 

The  much-deceived  Endymion 

Slips  behind  a  tomb. 

THE  soul  which  animates  Nature  is  not  less  signifi- 
cantly  published  in  the  figure,  movement,  and  gesture 
of  animated  bodies,  than  in  its  last  vehicle  of  articulate 
speech.  This  silent  and  subtile  language  is  Manners ; 
not  what,  but  how.  Life  expresses.  A  statue  has  no 
tongue,  and  needs  none.  Good  tableaux  do  not  need 
declamation.  Nature  tells  every  secret  once.  Yes, 
but  in  man  she  tells  it  all  the  time,  by  form,  attitude, 
gesture,  mien,  face,  and  parts  of  the  face,  and  by  the 
whole  action  of  the  machine.  The  visible  carriage  or 
action  of  the  individual,  as  resulting  from  his  organi 
zation  and  his  will  combined,  we  call  manners.  What 
are  they  but  thought  entering  the  hands  and  feet,  con 
trolling  the  movements  of  the  body,  the  speech  and 
behavior  ? 


BEHA  VIOR.  371 

There  is  always  a  best  way  of  doing  everything,  if 
it  be  to  boil  an  egg.  Manners  are  the  happy  ways  of 
doing  things ;  each  once  a  stroke  of  genius  or  of  love, 
—  now  repeated  and  hardened  into  usage.  They  form 
at  last  a  rich  varnish,  with  which  the  routine  of  life  is 
washed,  and  its  details  adorned.  If  they  are  super 
ficial,  so  are  the  dewdrops  which  give  such  a  depth  to 
the  morning  meadows.  Manners  are  very  communi 
cable  ;  men  catch  them  from  each  other.  Consuelo, 
in  the  romance,1  boasts  of  the  lessons  she  had  given 
the  nobles  in  manners,  on  the  stage  ;  and,  in  real  life, 
Talma  2  taught  Napoleon  the  arts  of  behavior.  Genius 
invents  fine  manners,  which  the  baron  and  the  baron 
ess  copy  very  fast,  and,  by  the  advantage  of  a  palace, 
better  the  instruction.  They  stereotype  the  lesson 
they  have  learned  into  a  mode. 

The  power  of  manners  is  incessant,  —  an  element 
as  unconcealable  as  fire.  The  nobility  cannot  in  any 
country  be  disguised,  and  no  more  in  a  republic  or  a 
democracy  than  in  a  kingdom.  No  man  can  resist 
their  influence.  There  are  certain  manners  which  are 
learned  in  good  society,  of  that  force,  that,  if  a  person 
have  them,  he  or  she  must  be  considered,  and  is  every 
where  welcome,  though  without  beauty,  or  wealth,  or 
genius.  Give  a  boy  address  and  accomplishments, 
and  you  give  him  the  mastery  of  palaces  and  fortunes 
where  he  goes.  He  has  not  the  trouble  of  earning  or 
owning  them ;  they  solicit  him  to  enter  and  possess. 
We  send  girls  of  a  timid,  retreating  disposition  to  the* 
boarding-school,  to  the  riding-school,  to  the  ball-room, 
or  wheresoever  they  can  come  into  acquaintance  and 
nearness  of  leading  persons  of  their  own  sex ;  where 

1  Of  the  same  name,  by  George  Sand. 

2  A  celebrated  actor. 


372  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

they  might  learn  address,  and  see  it  near  at  hand. 
The  power  of  a  woman  of  fashion  to  lead,  and  also  to 
daunt  and  repel,  derives  from  their  belief  that  she 
knows  resources  and  behaviors  not  known  to  them ; 
but  when  these  have  mastered  her  secret,  they  learn  to 
confront  her,  and  recover  their  self-possession. 

Every  day  bears  witness  to  their  gentle  rule.  People 
who  would  obtrude,  now  do  not  obtrude.  The  medi 
ocre  circle  learns  to  demand  that  which  belongs  to  a 
high  state  of  nature  or  of  culture.  Your  manners  are 
always  under  examination,  and  by  committees  little 
suspected,  —  a  police  in  citizens'  clothes,  —  but  are 
awarding  or  denying  you  very  high  prizes  when  you 
least  think  of  it. 

We  talk  much  of  utilities,  but 't  is  our  manners  that 
associate  us.  In  hours  of  business,  we  go  to  him  who 
knows,  or  has,  or  does  this  or  that  which  we  want,  and 
we  do  not  let  our  taste  or  feeling  stand  in  the  way. 
But  this  activity  over,  we  return  to  the  indolent  state, 
and  wish  for  those  we  can  be  at  ease  with ;  those  who 
will  go  where  we  go,  whose  manners  do  not  offend  us, 
whose  social  tone  chimes  with  ours.  When  we  reflect 
on  their  persuasive  and  cheering  force  ;  how  they  rec 
ommend,  prepare,  and  draw  people  together ;  how,  in 
all  clubs,  manners  make  the  members ;  how  manners 
make  the  fortune  of  the  ambitious  youth ;  that,  for  the 
most  part,  his  manners  marry  him,  and,  for  the  most 
part,  he  marries  manners ;  when  we  think  what  keys 
they  are,  and  to  what  secrets  ;  what  high  lessons  arid 
inspiring  tokens  of  character  they  convey ;  and  what 
divination  is  required  in  us,  for  the  reading  of  this 
fine  telegraph,  we  see  what  range  the  subject  has,  and 
what  relations  to  convenience,  power,  and  beauty. 

Their  first  service  is  very  low,  —  when  they  are  the 


BEHA  VIOR.  373 

minor  morals :  but 't  is  the  beginning  of  civility,  —  to 
make  us,  I  mean,  endurable  to  each  other.  We  prize 
them  for  their  rough-plastic,  abstergent  force ;  to  get 
people  out  of  the  quadruped  state ;  to  get  them  washed, 
clothed,  and  set  up  on  end;  to  slough  their  animal 
husks  and  habits ;  compel  them  to  be  clean ;  overawe 
their  spite  and  meanness,  teach  them  to  stifle  the  base, 
and  choose  the  generous  expression,  and  make  them 
know  how  much  happier  the  generous  behaviors  are. 

Bad  behavior  the  laws  cannot  reach.  Society  is 
infested  with  rude,  cynical,  restless,  and  frivolous  per 
sons  who  prey  upon  the  rest,  and  whom  a  public  opinion 
concentrated  into  good  manners  —  forms  accepted  by 
the  sense  of  all  —  can  reach :  the  contradictors  and 
railers  at  public  and  private  tables,  who  are  like  ter 
riers,  who  conceive  it  the  duty  of  a  dog  of  honor  to 
growl  at  any  passer-by,  and  do  the  honors  of  the  house 
by  barking  him  out  of  sight ;  —  I  have  seen  men  who 
neigh  like  a  horse  when  you  contradict  them,  or  say 
something  which  they  do  not  understand :  —  then  the 
overbold,  who  make  their  own  invitation  to  your 
hearth ;  the  persevering  talker,  who  gives  you  his 
society  in  large,  saturating  doses ;  the  pitiers  of  them 
selves,  —  a  perilous  class ;  the  frivolous  Asmodeus, 
who  relies  on  you  to  find  him  in  ropes  of  sand  to 
twist ;  the  monotones ;  in  short,  every  stripe  of  ab 
surdity;  —  these  are  social  inflictions  which  the  magis 
trate  cannot  cure  or  defend  you  from,  and  which  must 
be  intrusted  to  the  restraining  force  of  custom,  and 
proverbs,  and  familiar  rules  of  behavior  impressed  on 
young  people  in  their  school-days. 

In  the  hotels  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi,  they 
print,  or  used  to  print,  among  the  rules  of  the  house, 
that  "  no  gentleman  can  be  permitted  to  come  to  the 


374  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

public  table  without  his  coat ;  "  and  in  the  same  coun 
try,  in  the  pews  of  the  churches,  little  placards  plead 
with  the  worshipper  against  the  fury  of  expectoration. 
Charles  Dickens  self-sacrificingly  undertook  the  refor 
mation  of  our  American  manners  in  unspeakable  par 
ticulars.  I  think  the  lesson  was  not  quite  lost ;  that 
it  held  bad  manners  up,  so  that  the  churls  could  see 
the  deformity.  Unhappily,  the  book  had  its  own  de 
formities.  It  ought  not  to  need  to  print  in  a  reading- 
room  a  caution  to  strangers  not  to  speak  loud ;  nor  to 
persons  who  look  over  fine  engravings,  that  they 
should  be  handled  like  cobwebs  and  butterflies'  wings ; 
nor  to  persons  who  look  at  marble  statues,  that  they 
shall  not  smite  them  with  canes.  But,  even  in  the 
perfect  civilization  of  this  city,  such  cautions  are  not 
quite  needless  in  the  Athenaeum  and  City  Library. 

Manners  are  factitious,  and  grow  out  of  circum 
stance  as  well  as  out  of  character.  If  you  look  at  the 
pictures  of  patricians  and  of  peasants,  of  different 
periods  and  countries,  you  will  see  how  well  they 
match  the  same  classes  in  our  towns.  The  modern 
aristocrat  not  only  is  well  drawn  in  Titian's  Venetian 
doges,  and  in  Roman  coins  and  statues,  but  also  in  the 
pictures  which  Commodore  Perry  brought  home  of 
dignitaries  in  Japan.  Broad  lands  and  great  interests 
not  only  arrive  to  such  heads  as  can  manage  them,  but 
form  manners  of  power.  A  keen  eye,  too,  will  see 
nice  gradations  of  rank,  or  see  in  the  manners  the 
degree  of  homage  the  party  is  wont  to  receive.  A 
prince  who  is  accustomed  every  day  to  be  courted  and 
deferred  to  by  the  highest  grandees,  acquires  a  corre 
sponding  expectation,  and  a  becoming  mode  of  receiv 
ing  and  replying  to  this  homage. 

There  are   always  exceptional   people  and   modes. 


BEHAVIOR.  375 

English  grandees  affect  to  be  farmers.  Claverhouse 
is  a  fop,  and,  under  the  finish  of  dress,  and  levity  of 
behavior,  hides  the  terror  of  his  war.  But  Nature 
and  Destiny  are  honest,  and  never  fail  to  leave  their 
mark,  to  hang  out  a  sign  for  each  and  for  every  qual 
ity.  It  is  much  to  conquer  one's  face,  and  perhaps 
the  ambitious  youth  thinks  he  has  got  the  whole  secret 
when  he  has  learned  that  disengaged  manners  are 
commanding.  Don't  be  deceived  by  a  facile  exterior. 
Tender  men  sometimes  have  strong  wills.  We  had, 
in  Massachusetts,  an  old  statesman,  who  had  sat  all 
his  life  in  courts  and  in  chairs  of  state,  without  over 
coming  an  extreme  irritability  of  face,  voice,  and  bear 
ing  ;  when  he  spoke,  his  voice  would  not  serve  him ;  it 
cracked,  it  broke,  it  wheezed,  it  piped  :  little  cared  he ; 
he  knew  that  it  had  got  to  pipe,  or  wheeze,  or  screech 
his  argument  and  his  indignation.  When  he  sat  down, 
after  speaking,  he  seemed  in  a  sort  of  fit,  and  held  on 
to  his  chair  with  both  hands ;  but  underneath  all  this 
irritability  was  a  puissant  will,  firm  and  advancing, 
and  a  memory  in  which  lay  in  order  and  method  like 
geologic  strata  every  fact  of  his  history,  and  under  the 
control  of  his  will. 

Manners  are  partly  factitious,  but,  mainly,  there 
must  be  capacity  for  culture  in  the  blood.  Else  all 
culture  is  vain.  The  obstinate  prejudice  in  favor  of 
blood,  which  lies  at  the  base  of  the  feudal  and  mon 
archical  fabrics  of  the  Old  World,  has  some  reason 
in  common  experience.  Every  man  —  mathematician, 
artist,  soldier,  or  merchant  —  looks  with  confidence 
for  some  traits  and  talents  in  his  own  child,  which  he 
would  not  dare  to  presume  in  the  child  of  a  stranger. 
The  Orientalists  are  very  orthodox  on  this  point. 
"Take  a  thorn-bush,"  said  the  emir  Abdel-Kader, 


876  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

"  and  sprinkle  it  for  a  whole  year  with  water  ;  it  will 
yield  nothing  but  thorns.  Take  a  date-tree,  leave  it 
without  culture,  and  it  will  always  produce  dates. 
Nobility  is  the  date-tree,  and  the  Arab  populace  is  a 
bush  of  thorns." 

A  main  fact  in  the  history  of  manners  is  the  won 
derful  expressiveness  of  the  human  body.  If  it  were 
made  of  glass,  or  of  air,  and  the  thoughts  were  written 
on  steel  tablets  within,  it  could  not  publish  more  truly 
its  meaning  than  now.  Wise  men  read  very  sharply 
all  your  private  history  in  your  look  and  gait  and  be 
havior.  The  whole  economy  of  nature  is  bent  on  ex 
pression.  The  tell-tale  body  is  all  tongues.  Men  are 
like  Geneva  watches  with  crystal  faces  which  expose 
the  whole  movement.  They  carry  the  liquor  of  life 
flowing  up  and  down  in  these  beautiful  bottles,  and 
announcing  to  the  curious  how  it  is  with  them.  The 
face  and  eyes  reveal  what  the  spirit  is  doing,  how  old 
it  is,  what  aims  it  has.  The  eyes  indicate  the  antiquity 
of  the  soul,  or,  through  how  many  forms  it  has  already 
ascended.  It  almost  violates  the  proprieties,  if  we  say 
above  the  breath  here,  what  the  confessing  eyes  do 
not  hesitate  to  utter  to  every  street  passenger. 

Man  cannot  fix  his  eye  on  the  sun,  and  so  far  seems 
imperfect.  In  Siberia,  a  late  traveller  found  men 
who  could  see  the  satellites  of  Jupiter  with  their  un 
armed  eye.  In  some  respects  the  animals  excel  us. 
The  birds  have  a  longer  sight,  beside  the  advantage 
by  their  wings  of  a  higher  observatory.  A  cow  can 
bid  her  calf,  by  secret  signal,  probably  of  the  eye,  to 
run  away,  or  to  lie  down  and  hide  itself.  The  jockeys 
say  of  certain  horses,  that  "  they  look  over  the  whole 
ground."  The  out-door  life,  and  hunting,  and  labor, 
give  equal  vigor  to  the  human  eye.  A  farmer  looks 


BEHAVIOR.  377 

out  at  you  as  strong  as  the  horse  ;  his  eye-beam  is  like 
the  stroke  of  a  staff.  An  eye  can  threaten  like  a 
loaded  and  levelled  gun,  or  can  insult  like  hissing  or 
lacking ;  or,  in  its  altered  mood,  by  beams  of  kind 
ness,  it  can  make  the  heart  dance  with  joy. 

The  eye  obeys  exactly  the  action  of  the  mind. 
When  a  thought  strikes  us,  the  eyes  fix,  and  remain 
gazing  at  a  distance ;  in  enumerating  the  names  of 
persons  or  of  countries,  as  France,  Germany,  Spain, 
Turkey,  the  eyes  wink  at  each  new  name.  There 
is  no  nicety  of  learning  sought  by  the  mind  which 
the  eyes  do  not  vie  in  acquiring.  "  An  artist,"  said 
Michel  Angelo,  "  must  have  his  measuring  tools  not 
in  the  hand,  but  in  the  eye  ; "  and  there  is  no  end  to 
the  catalogue  of  its  performances,  whether  in  indolent 
vision  (that  of  health  and  beauty),  or  in  strained  vi 
sion  (that  of  art  and  labor). 

Eyes  are  bold  as  lions,  —  roving,  running,  leaping, 
here  and  there,  far  and  near.  They  speak  all  lan 
guages.  They  wait  for  no  introduction ;  they  are  no 
Englishmen ;  ask  no  leave  of  age  or  rank ;  they  re 
spect  neither  poverty  nor  riches,  neither  learning  nor 
power,  nor  virtue,  nor  sex,  but  intrude,  and  come 
again,  and  go  through  and  through  you,  in  a  moment 
of  time.  What  inundation  of  life  and  thought  is  dis 
charged  from  one  soul  into  another,  through  them  ! 
The  glance  is  natural  magic.  The  mysterious  com 
munication  established  across  a  house  between  two 
entire  strangers,  moves  all  the  springs  of  wonder. 
The  communication  by  the  glance  is  in  the  greatest 
part  not  subject  to  the  control  of  the  will.  It  is  the 
bodily  symbol  of  identity  of  nature.  We  look  into 
the  eyes  to  know  if  this  other  form  is  another  self, 
and  the  eyes  will  not  lie,  but  make  a  faithful  confes- 


378  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

sion  what  inhabitant  is  there.  The  revelations  are 
sometimes  terrific.  The  confession  of  a  low,  usurping 
devil  is  there  made,  and  the  observer  shall  seern  to 
feel  the  stirring  of  owls,  and  bats,  and  horned  hoofs, 
where  he  looked  for  innocence  and  simplicity.  'T  is 
remarkable,  too,  that  the  spirit  that  appears  at  the 
windows  of  the  house  does  at  once  invest  himself  in 
a  new  form  of  his  own,  to  the  mind  of  the  beholder. 

The  eyes  of  men  converse  as  much  as  their  tongues, 
with  the  advantage,  that  the  ocular  dialect  needs  no 
dictionary,  but  is  understood  all  the  world  over. 
When  the  eyes  say  one  thing,  and  the  tongue  another, 
a  practised  man  relies  on  the  language  of  the  first. 
If  the  man  is  off  his  centre,  the  eyes  show  it.  You 
can  read  in  the  eyes  of  your  companion,  whether 
your  argument  hits  him,  though  his  tongue  will  not 
confess  it.  There  is  a  look  by  which  a  man  shows  he 
is  going  to  say  a  good  thing,  and  a  look  when  he  has 
said  it.  Vain  and  forgotten  are  all  the  fine  offers 
and  offices  of  hospitality,  if  there  is  no  holiday  in  the 
eye.  How  many  furtive  inclinations  avowed  by  the 
eye,  though  dissembled  by  the  lips !  One  comes  away 
from  a  company,  in  which,  it  may  easily  happen,  he 
has  said  nothing,  and  no  important  remark  has  been 
addressed  to  him,  and  yet,  if  in  sympathy  with  the 
society,  he  shall  not  have  a  sense  of  this  fact,  such  a 
stream  of  life  has  been  flowing  into  him,  and  out  from 
him,  through  the  eyes.  There  are  eyes,  to  be  sure, 
that  give  no  more  admission  into  the  man  than  blue 
berries.  Others  are  liquid  and  deep,  —  wells  that  a 
man  might  fall  into  ;  —  others  are  aggressive  and  de 
vouring,  seem  to  call  out  the  police,  take  all  too  much 
notice,  and  require  crowded  Broadways,  and  the  se 
curity  of  millions,  to  protect  individuals  against  them. 


BEHA  VIOR.  379 

The  military  eye  I  meet,  now  darkly  sparkling  under 
clerical,  now  under  rustic,  brows.  "Tis  the  city  of 
Lacedaemon  ;  't  is  a  stack  of  bayonets.  There  are 
asking  eyes,  asserting  eyes,  prowling  eyes ;  and  eyes 
full  of  fate,  —  some  of  good,  and  some  of  sinister, 
omen.  The  alleged  power  to  charm  down  insanity,  or 
ferocity  in  beasts,  is  a  power  behind  the  eye.  It  must 
be  a  victory  achieved  in  the  will,  before  it  can  be  sig 
nified  in  the  eye.  'T  is  very  certain  that  each  man 
carries  in  his  eye  the  exact  indication  of  his  rank  in 
the  immense  scale  of  men,  and  we  are  always  learning 
to  read  it.  A  complete  man  should  need  no  auxilia 
ries  to  his  personal  presence.  Whoever  looked  on 
him  would  consent  to  his  will,  being  certified  that  his 
aims  were  generous  and  universal.  The  reason  why 
men  do  not  obey  us,  is  because  they  see  the  mud  at 
the  bottom  of  our  eye. 

If.  the  organ  of  sight  is  such  a  vehicle  of  power,  the 
other  features  have  their  own.  A  man  finds  room  in 
the  few  square  inches  of  the  face  for  the  traits  of  all 
his  ancestors ;  for  the  expression  of  all  his  history, 
and  his  wants.  The  sculptor,  and  Winckelmann,  and 
Lavater,  will  tell  you  how  significant  a  feature  is  the 
nose  ;  how  its  form  expresses  strength  or  weakness 
of  will  and  good  or  bad  temper.  The  nose  of  Ju 
lius  Caesar,  of  Dante,  and  of  Pitt  suggest  "  the  ter 
rors  of  the  beak."  What  refinement,  and  what 
limitations,  the  teeth  betray !  "  Beware  you  don't 
laugh,"  said  the  wise  mother,  "  for  then  you  show  all 
your  faults." 

Balzac  left  in  manuscript  a  chapter,  which  he  called 
"  Theorie  de  la  demarche"  in  which  he  says :  "  The 
look,  the  voice,  the  respiration,  and  the  attitude  or 
walk  are  identical.  But,  as  it  has  not  been  given  to 


380  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

man,  the  power  to  stand  guard,  at  once,  over  these 
four  different  simultaneous  expressions  of  his  thought, 
watch  that  one  which  speaks  out  the  truth,  and  you 
will  know  the  whole  man." 

Palaces  interest  us  mainly  in  the  exhibition  of  man 
ners,  which  in  the  idle  and  expensive  society  dwelling 
in  them  are  raised  to  a  high  art.  The  maxim  of 
courts  is  that  manner  is  power.  A  calm  and  resolute 
bearing,  a  polished  speech,  and  embellishment  of  tri 
fles,  and  the  art  of  hiding  all  uncomfortable  feeling, 
are  essential  to  the  courtier,  and  Saint  Simon,  and 
Cardinal  de  Retz,  and  Roederer,  and  an  encyclopedia 
of  Memoires  will  instruct  you,  if  you  wish,  in  those 
potent  secrets.  Thus,  it  is  a  point  of  pride  with  kings 
to  remember  faces  and  names.  It  is  reported  of  one 
prince,  that  his  head  had  the  air  of  leaning  down 
wards,  in  order  not  to  humble  the  crowd.  There  are 
people  who  come  in  ever  like  a  child  with  a  piece  of 
good  news.  It  was  said  of  the  late  Lord  Holland, 
that  he  always  came  down  to  breakfast  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  had  just  met  with  some  signal  good  for 
tune.  In  Notre  Dame  the  grandee  took  his  place 
on  the  dais,  with  the  look  of  one  who  is  thinking  of 
something  else.  But  we  must  not  peep  and  eavesdrop 
at  palace-doors. 

Fine  manners  need  the  support  of  fine  manners  in 
others.  A  scholar  may  be  a  well-bred  man,  or  he  may 
not.  The  enthusiast  is  introduced  to  polished  scholars 
in  society,  and  is  chilled  and  silenced  by  finding  him 
self  not  in  their  element.  They  all  have  somewhat 
which  he  has  not,  and,  it  seems,  ought  to  have.  But 
if  he  finds  the  scholar  apart  from  his  companions,  it 
is  then  the  enthusiast's  turn,  and  the  scholar  has  no 
defence,  but  must  deal  on  his  terms.  Now  they  must 


BEHA  VIOR.  381 

fight  the  battle  out  on  their  private  strength.  What 
is  the  talent  of  that  character  so  common,  —  the  suc 
cessful  man  of  the  world,  — in  all  marts,  senates,  and 
drawing-rooms  ?  Manners :  manners  of  power  ;  sense 
to  see  his  advantage,  and  manners  up  to  it.  See  him 
approach  his  man.  He  knows  that  troops  behave  as 
they  are  handled  at  first ;  —  that  is  his  cheap  secret ;., 
just  what  happens  to  every  two  persons  who  meet  on 
any  affair,  one  instantly  perceives  that  he  has  the  key 
of  the  situation,  that  his  will  comprehends  the  other's 
will,  as  the  cat  does  the  mouse,  and  he  has  only  to  use 
courtesy,  and  furnish  good-natured  reasons  to  his  vic 
tim  to  cover  up  the  chain,  lest  he  be  shamed  into  re 
sistance. 

The  theatre  in  which  this  science  of  manners  has  a 
formal  importance  is  not  with  us  a  court,  but  dress- 
circles,  wherein,  after  the  close  of  the  day's  business, 
men  and  women  meet  at  leisure,  for  mutual  entertain 
ment,  in  ornamented  drawing-rooms.  Of  course,  it 
has  every  variety  of  attraction  and  merit ;  but,  to 
earnest  persons,  to  youths  or  maidens  who  have  great 
objects  at  heart,  we  cannot  extol  it  highly.  A  well- 
dressed,  talkative  company,  where  each  is  bent  to 
amuse  the  other,  —  yet  the  high-born  Turk  who  came 
hither  fancied  that  every  woman  seemed  to  be  suffer 
ing  for  a  chair  ;  that  all  talkers  were  brained  and  ex 
hausted  by  the  de-oxygenated  air  ;  it  spoiled  the  best 
persons :  it  put  all  on  stilts.  Yet  here  are  the  secret 
biographies  written  and  read.  The  aspect  of  that 
man  is  repulsive  ;  I  do  not  wish  to  deal  with  him. 
The  other  is  irritable,  shy,  and  on  his  guard.  The 
youth  looks  humble  and  manly :  I  choose  him.  Look 
on  this  woman.  There  is  not  beauty,  nor  brilliant  say 
ings,  nor  distinguished  power  to  serve  you ;  but  all  see 


382  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

her  gladly ;  her  whole  air  and  impression  are  health 
ful.  Here  coine  the  sentimentalists,  and  the  invalids. 
Here  is  Elise,  who  caught  cold  in  coming  into  the 
world,  and  has  always  increased  it  since.  Here  are 
creep-mouse  manners  ;  and  thievish  manners.  "  Look 
at  Northcote,"  said  Fuseli ;  "  he  looks  like  a  rat  that 
has  seen  a  cat."  In  the  shallow  company,  easily  ex 
cited,  easily  tired,  here  is  the  columnar  Bernard :  the 
Alleghanies  do  not  express  more  repose  than  his  be 
havior.  Here  are  the  sweet,  following  eyes  of  Cecile : 
it  seemed  always  that  she  demanded  the  heart.  No 
thing  can  be  more  excellent  in  kind  than  the  Corin 
thian  grace  of  Gertrude's  manners,  and  yet  Blanche, 
who  has  no  manners,  has  better  manners  than  she ; 
for  the  movements  of  Blanche  are  the  sallies  of  a 
spirit  which  is  sufficient  for  the  moment,  and  she  can 
afford  to  express  every  thought  by  instant  action. 

Manners  have  been  somewhat  cynically  defined  to 
be  a  contrivance  of  wise  men  to  keep  fools  at  a  dis 
tance.  Fashion  is  shrewd  to  detect  those  who  do  not 
belong  to  her  train,  and  seldom  wastes  her  attentions. 
Society  is  very  swift  in  its  instincts,  and,  if  you  do  not 
belong  to  it,  resists  and  sneers  at  you ;  or  quietly 
drops  you.  The  first  weapon  enrages  the  party  at 
tacked  ;  the  second  is  still  more  effective,  but  is  not 
to  be  resisted,  as  the  date  of  the  transaction  is  not 
easily  found.  People  grow  up  and  grow  old  under 
this  infliction,  and  never  suspect  the  truth,  ascribing 
the  solitude  which  acts  on  them  very  injuriously  to 
any  cause  but  the  right  one. 

The  basis  of  good  manners  is  self-reliance.  Neces 
sity  is  the  law  of  all  who  are  not  self-possessed.  Those 
who  are  not  self-possessed  obtrude  and  pain  us.  Some 
men  appear  to  feel  that  they  belong  to  a  Pariah  caste. 


BEHA  VIOR.  383 

They  fear  to  offend,  they  bend  and  apologize,  and 
walk  through  life  with  a  timid  step. 

As  we  sometimes  dream  that  we  are  in  a  well- 
dressed  company  without  any  coat,  so  Godfrey  acts 
ever  as  if  he  suffered  from  some  mortifying  circum 
stance.  The  hero  should  find  himself  at  home,  wher« 
ever  he  is  ;  should  impart  comfort  by  his  own  security 
and  good-nature  to  all  beholders.  The  hero  is  suffered 
to  be  himself.  A  person  of  strong  mind  comes  to  per 
ceive  that  for  him  an  immunity  is  secured  so  long  as 
he  renders  to  society  that  service  which  is  native  and 
proper  to  him,  —  an  immunity  from  all  the  observ 
ances,  yea,  and  duties,  which  society  so  tyrannically  im 
poses  on  the  rank  and  file  of  its  members.  "  Euripi 
des,"  says  Aspasia,  "  has  not  the  fine  manners  of 
Sophocles :  "  but,"  she  adds,  good-humoredly,  "  the 
movers  and  masters  of  our  souls  have  surely  a  right 
to  throw  out  their  limbs  as  carelessly  as  they  please  on 
the  world  that  belongs  to  them,  and  before  the  crea 
tures  they  have  animated."  l 

Manners  require  time,  as  nothing  is  more  vulgar 
than  haste.  Friendship  should  be  surrounded  with 
ceremonies  and  respects,  and  not  crushed  into  corners. 
Friendship  requires  more  time  than  poor  busy  men 
can  usually  command.  Here  comes  to  me  Roland, 
with  a  delicacy  of  sentiment  leading  and  inwrapping 
him  like  a  divine  cloud  or  holy  ghost.  'T  is  a  great 
destitution  to  both  that  this  should  not  be  entertained 
with  large  leisures,  but  contrariwise  should  be  balked 
by  importunate  affairs. 

But  through  this  lustrous  varnish,  the  reality  is  ever 
shining.  'T  is  hard  to  keep  the  what  from  breaking 
through  this  pretty  painting  of  the  how.  The  core 
1  Laiidor,  Pericles  and  Aspasia. 


384  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

will  come  to  the  surface.  Strong  will  and  keen  per- 
ception  overpower  old  manners,  and  create  new ;  and 
the  thought  of  the  present  moment  has  a  greater  value 
than  all  the  past.  In  persons  of  character  we  do  not 
remark  manners,  because  of  their  instantaneousness. 
We  are  surprised  by  the  thing  done,  out  of  all  power 
to  watch  the  way  of  it.  Yet  nothing  is  more  charming 
than  to  recognize  the  great  style  which  runs  through 
the  action  of  such.  People  masquerade  before  us  in 
their  fortunes,  titles,  offices,  and  connections,  as  aca 
demic  or  civil  presidents,  or  senators,  or  professors,  or 
great  lawyers,  and  impose  on  the  frivolous,  and  a  good 
deal  on  each  other,  by  these  fames.  At  least,  it  is  a 
point  of  prudent  good  manners  to  treat  these  reputa 
tions  tenderly,  as  if  they  were  merited.  But  the  sad 
realist  knows  these  fellows  at  a  glance,  and  they  know 
him ;  as  when  in  Paris  the  chief  of  the  police  enters  a 
ball-room,  so  many  diamonded  pretenders  shrink  and 
make  themselves  as  inconspicuous  as  they  can,  or  give 
him  a  supplicating  look  as  they  pass.  "  I  had  re 
ceived,"  said  a  sibyl,  —  "I  had  received  at  birth  the 
fatal  gift  of  penetration ;  "  and  these  Cassandras  are 
always  born. 

Manners  impress  as  they  indicate  real  power.  A 
man  who  is  sure  of  his  point  carries  a  broad  and  con 
tented  expression,  which  everybody  reads.  And  you 
cannot  rightly  train  one  to  an  air  and  manner  except 
by  making  him  the  kind  of  man  of  whom  that  manner 
is  the  natural  expression.  Nature  forever  puts  a  pre 
mium  on  reality.  What  is  done  for  effect  is  seen  to 
be  done  for  effect ;  what  is  done  for  love  is  felt  to  be 
done  for  love.  A  man  inspires  affection  and  honor, 
because  he  was  not  lying  in  wait  for  these.  The 
things  of  a  man  for  which  we  visit  him,  were  done  in 


BEHA  VIOR.  385 

the  dark  and  the  cold.  A  little  integrity  is  better 
than  any  career.  So  deep  are  the  sources  of  this  sur 
face-action,  that  even  the  size  of  your  companion  seems 
to  vary  with  his  freedom  of  thought.  Not  only  is  he 
larger,  when  at  ease,  and  his  thoughts  generous,  but 
everything  around  him  becomes  variable  with  expres 
sion.  No  carpenter's  rule,  no  rod  and  chain,  will 
measure  the  dimensions  of  any  house  or  house-lot :  go 
into  the  house :  if  the  proprietor  is  constrained  and 
deferring,  't  is  of  no  importance  how  large  his  house, 
how  beautiful  his  grounds,  —  you  quickly  come  to  the 
end  of  all ;  but  if  the  man  is  self-possessed,  happy,  and 
at  home,  his  house  is  deep-founded,  indefinitely  Large 
and  interesting,  the  roof  and  dome  buoyant  as  the  sky. 
Under  the  humblest  roof,  the  commonest  person  in 
plain  clothes  sits  there  massive,  cheerful,  yet  formi 
dable  like  the  Egyptian  colossi. 

Neither  Aristotle,  nor  Leibnitz,  nor  Junius,  nor 
Champollion  has  set  down  the  grammar-rules  of  this 
dialect,  older  than  Sanscrit ;  but  they  who  cannot  yet 
read  English,  can  read  this.  Men  take  each  other's 
measure,  when  they  meet  for  the  first  time,  —  and 
every  time  they  meet.  How  do  they  get  this  rapid 
knowledge,  even  before  they  speak,  of  each  other's 
power  and  dispositions  ?  One  would  say  that  the  per 
suasion  of  their  speech  is  not  in  what  they  say,  —  or, 
that  men  do  not  convince  by  their  argument,  —  but  by 
their  personality,  by  who  they  are,  and  what  they  said 
and  did  heretofore.  A  man  already  strong  is  listened 
to,  and  everything  he  says  is  applauded.  Another 
opposes  him  with  sound  argument,  but  the  argument 
is  scouted,  until  by  and  by  it  gets  into  the  mind  of 
some  weighty  person ;  then  it  begins  to  tell  on  the 
community. 


386  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Self-reliance  is  the  basis  of  behavior,  as  it  is  the 
guaranty  that  the  powers  are  not  squandered  in  too 
much  demonstration.  In  this  country,  where  school 
education  is  universal,  we  have  a  superficial  culture, 
and  a  profusion  of  reading  and  writing  and  expres 
sion.  We  parade  our  nobilities  in  poems  and  ora° 
tions,  instead  of  working  them  up  into  happiness,, 
There  is  a  whisper  out  of  the  ages  to  him  who  can 
understand  it,  — "  Whatever  is  known  to  thyself 
alone  has  always  very  great  value."  There  is  some 
reason  to  believe  that,  when  a  man  does  not  write  his 
poetry,  it  escapes  by  other  vents  through  him,  instead 
of  the  one  vent  of  writing;  clings  to  his  form  and 
manners,  whilst  poets  have  often  nothing  poetical 
about  them  except  their  verses.  Jacobi  said,  that 
"  when  a  man  has  fully  expressed  his  thought,  he  has 
somewhat  less  possession  of  it."  One  would  say,  the 
rule  is,  —  What  a  man  is  irresistibly  urged  to  say, 
helps  him  and  us.  In  explaining  his  thought  to  others, 
he  explains  it  to  himself :  but  when  he  opens  it  for 
show,  it  corrupts  him. 

Society  is  the  stage  on  which  manners  are  shown ; 
novels  are  their  literature.  Novels  are  the  journal  or 
record  of  manners ;  and  the  new  importance  of  these 
books  derives  from  the  fact  that  the  novelist  begins  to 
penetrate  the  surface,  and  treat  this  part  of  life  more 
worthily.  The  novels  used  to  be  all  alike,  and  had 
a  quite  vulgar  tone.  The  novels  used  to  lead  us  on  to 
a  foolish  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  the  boy  and  girl 
they  described.  The  boy  was  to  be  raised  from  a 
humble  to  a  high  position.  He  was  in  want  of  a  wife 
and  a  castle,  and  the  object  of  the  story  was  to  supply 
him  with  one  or  both.  We  watched  sympathetically, 
step  by  step,  his  climbing,  until,  at  last,  the  point  is 


BEHA  VIOR.  387 

gained,  the  wedding  day  is  fixed,  and  we  follow  the 
gala  procession  home  to  the  bannered  portal,  when  the 
doors  are  slammed  in  our  face,  and  the  poor  reader  is 
left  outside  in  the  cold,  not  enriched  by  so  much  as  an 
idea,  or  a  virtuous  impulse. 

But  the  victories  of  character  are  instant,  and  vic 
tories  for  all.  Its  greatness  enlarges  all.  We  are 
fortified  by  every  heroic  anecdote.  The  novels  are  as 
useful  as  Bibles,  if  they  teach  you  the  secret,  that  the 
best  of  life  is  conversation,  and  the  greatest  success  is 
confidence,  or  perfect  understanding  between  sincere 
people.  'T  is  a  French  definition  of  friendship,  rien 
que  s^entendre,  good  understanding.  The  highest 
compact  we  can  make  with  our  fellow  is,  —  "  Let  there 
be  truth  between  us  two  for  evermore."  That  is  the 
charm  in  all  good  novels,  as  it  is  the  charm  in  all  good 
histories,  that  the  heroes  mutually  understand,  from 
the  first,  and  deal  loyally  and  with  a  profound  trust  in 
each  other.  It  is  sublime  to  feel  and  say  of  another, 
I  need  never  meet,  or  speak,  or  write  to  him :  we  need 
not  reinforce  ourselves,  or  send  tokens  of  remem 
brance  :  I  rely  on  him  as  on  myself :  if  he  did  thus,  or 
thus,  I  know  it  was  right. 

In  all  the  superior  people  I  have  met,  I  notice  di 
rectness,  truth  spoken  more  truly,  as  if  everything  of 
obstruction,  of  malformation,  had  been  trained  away. 
What  have  they  to  conceal  ?  What  have  they  to  ex 
hibit  ?  Between  simple  and  noble  persons  there  is  al 
ways  a  quick  intelligence  :  they  recognize  at  sight,  and 
meet  on  a  better  ground  than  the  talents  and  skills 
they  may  chance  to  possess,  namely,  on  sincerity  and 
uprightness.  For,  it  is  not  what  talents  or  genius 
a  man  has,  but  how  he  is  to  his  talents,  that  consti 
tutes  friendship  and  character.  The  man  that  stands 


388  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

by  himself,  the  universe  stands  by  him  also.  It  is  re 
lated  of  the  monk  Basle,  that,  being  excommunicated 
by  the  Pope,  he  was,  at  his  death,  sent  in  charge  of  an 
angel  to  find  a  fit  place  of  suffering  in  hell ;  but  such 
was  the  eloquence  and  good-humor  of  the  monk,  that 
wherever  he  went  he  was  received  gladly,  and  civilly 
treated,  even  by  the  most  uncivil  angels :  and  when 
he  came  to  discourse  with  them,  instead  of  contradict 
ing  or  forcing  him,  they  took  his  part,  and  adopted 
his  manners ;  and  even  good  angels  came  from  far,  to 
see  him,  and  take  up  their  abode  with  him.  The  an 
gel  that  was  sent  to  find  a  place  of  torment  for  him 
attempted  to  remove  him  to  a  worse  pit,  but  with  no 
better  success  ;  for  such  was  the  contented  spirit  of 
the  monk,  that  he  found  something  to  praise  in  every 
place  and  company,  though  in  hell,  and  made  a  kind 
of  heaven  of  it.  At  last  the  escorting  angel  returned 
with  his  prisoner  to  them  that  sent  him,  saying  that 
no  phlegethon  could  be  found  that  would  burn  him ; 
for  that  in  whatever  condition,  Basle  remained  incor 
rigibly  Basle.  The  legend  says,  his  sentence  was  re 
mitted,  and  he  was  allowed  to  go  into  heaven,  and 
was  canonized  as  a  saint. 

There  is  a  stroke  of  magnanimity  in  the  correspond 
ence  of  Bonaparte  with  his  brother  Joseph,  when  the 
latter  was  King  of  Spain,  and  complained  that  he 
missed  'in  Napoleon's  letters  the  affectionate  tone 
which  had  marked  their  childish  correspondence.  "  I 
am  sorry,"  replies  Napoleon,  "you  think  you  shall 
find  your  brother  again  only  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 
It  is  natural  that  at  forty  he  should  not  feel  towards 
you  as  he  did  at  twelve.  But  his  feelings  towards  you 
have  greater  truth  and  strength.  His  friendship  has 
the  features  of  his  mind." 


BEHA  VIOR.  389 

How  much  we  forgive  in  those  who  yield  us  the 
rare  spectacle  of  heroic  manners !  We  will  pardon 
them  the  want  of  books,  of  arts,  and  even  of  the  gen 
tler  virtues.  How  tenaciously  we  remember  them ! 
Here  is  a  lesson  which  I  brought  along  with  me  in 
boyhood  from  the  Latin  School,  and  which  ranks  with 
the  best  of  Roman  anecdotes.  Marcus  Scaurus  was 
accused  by  Quintus  Varius  Hispanus,  that  he  had  ex 
cited  the  allies  to  take  arms  against  the  Republic. 
But  he,  full  of  firmness  and  gravity,  defended  himself 
in  this  manner  :  "  Quintus  Varius  Hispanus  alleges 
that  Marcus  Scaurus,  President  of  the  Senate,  excited 
the  allies  to  arms :  Marcus  Scaurus,  President  of  the 
Senate,  denies  it.  There  is  no  witness.  Which  do 
you  believe,  Romans  ?  "  "  Utri  creditis,  Quirites  ?  " 
When  he  had  said  these  words,  he  was  absolved  by 
the  assembly  of  the  people. 

I  have  seen  manners  that  make  a  similar  impression 
with  personal  beauty ;  that  give  the  like  exhilaration, 
and  refine  us  like  that ;  and,  in  memorable  experi 
ences,  they  are  suddenly  better  than  beauty,  and  make 
that  superfluous  and  ugly.  But  they  must  be  marked 
by  fine  perception,  the  acquaintance  with  real  beauty. 
They  must  always  show  self-control :  you  shall  not  be 
facile,  apologetic,  or  leaky,  but  king  over  your  word ; 
and  every  gesture  and  action  shall  indicate  power  at 
rest.  Then  they  must  be  inspired  by  the  good  heart. 
There  is  no  beautifier  of  complexion,  or  form,  or  be- 
liavior,  like  the  wish  to  scatter  joy  and  not  pain 
around  us.  'T  is  good  to  give  a  stranger  a  meal,  or  a 
night's  lodging.  'T  is  better  to  be  hospitable  to  his 
good  meaning  and  thought,  and  give  courage  to  a 
companion.  We  must  be  as  courteous  to  a  man  as 
we  are  to  a  picture,  which  we  are  willing  to  give  the 


390  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

advantage  of  a  good  light.  Special  precepts  are  not 
to  be  thought  of:  the  talent  of  well-doing  contains 
them  all.  Every  hour  will  show  a  duty  as  paramount 
as  that  of  my  whim  just  now ;  and  yet  I  will  write  it, 
—  that  there  is  one  topic  peremptorily  forbidden  to 
all  well-bred,  to  all  rational  mortals,  namely,  their 
distempers.  If  you  have  not  slept,  or  if  you  have 
slept,  or  if  you  have  headache,  or  sciatica,  or  leprosy, 
or  thunder-stroke,  I  beseech  you,  by  all  angels,  to  hold 
your  peace,  and  not  pollute  the  morning,  to  which  all 
the  housemates  bring  serene  and  pleasant  thoughts,  by 
corruption  and  groans.  Come  out  of  the  azure. 
Love  the  day.  Do  not  leave  the  sky  out  of  your  land 
scape.  The  oldest  and  the  most  deserving  person 
should  come  very  modestly  into  any  newly  awaked 
company,  respecting  the  divine  communications,  out  of 
which  all  must  be  presumed  to  have  newly  come.  An 
old  man,  who  added  an  elevating  culture  to  a  large 
experience  of  life,  said  to  me :  "  When  you  come  into 
the  room,  I  think  I  will  study  how  to  make  humanity 
beautiful  to  you." 

As  respects  the  delicate  question  of  culture,  I  do 
not  think  that  any  other  than  negative  rules  can  be 
laid  down.  For  pqsitive  rules,  for  suggestion,  Nature 
alone  inspires  it.  Who  dare  assume  to  guide  a  youth, 
a  maid,  to  perfect  manners  ?  —  the  golden  mean  is  so 
delicate,  difficult,  —  say  frankly,  unattainable.  What 
finest  hands  would  not  be  clumsy  to  sketch  the  genial 
precepts  of  the  young  girl's  demeanor  ?  The  chances 
seem  infinite  against  success ;  and  yet  success  is  con 
tinually  attained.  There  must  not  be  secondariness, 
and  't  is  a  thousand  to  one  that  her  air  and  manner 
will  at  once  betray  that  she  is  not  primary,  but  that 
there  is  some  other  one  or  many  of  her  class,  to  whom 


BOOKS.  391 

she  habitually  postpones  herself.  But  Nature  lifts 
her  easily,  and  without  knowing  it,  over  these  impos 
sibilities,  and  we  are  continually  surprised  with  graces 
and  felicities  not  only  unteachable,  but  undescribable. 


II. 

BOOKS. 

IT  is  easy  to  accuse  books,  and  bad  ones  are  easily 
found ;  and  the  best  are  but  records,  and  not  the 
things  recorded ;  and  certainly  there  is  dilettanteism 
enough,  and  books  that  are  merely  neutral  and  do 
nothing  for  us.  In  Plato's  "  Gorgias,"  Socrates 
says  :  "  The  shipmaster  walks  in  a  modest  garb  near 
the  sea,  after  bringing  his  passengers  from  ^gina  or 
from  Pontus,  not  thinking  he  has  done  anything  ex 
traordinary,  and  certainly  knowing  that  his  passengers 
are  the  same,  and  in  no  respect  better  than  when  he 
took  them  on  board."  So  it  is  with  books,  for  the 
most  part ;  they  work  no  redemption  in  us.  The 
bookseller  might  certainly  know  that  his  customers 
are  in  no  respect  better  for  the  purchase  and  con 
sumption  of  his  wares.  The  volume  is  dear  at  a  dol 
lar,  and,  after  reading  to  weariness  the  lettered  backs, 
we  leave  the  shop  with  a  sigh,  and  learn,  as  I  did, 
without  surprise,  of  a  surly  bank  director,  that  in 
bank  parlors  they  estimate  all  stocks  of  this  kind  as 
rubbish. 

But  it  is  not  less  true  that  there  are  books  which 
are  of  that  importance  in  a  man's  private  experience, 
as  to  verify  for  him  the  fables  of  Cornelius  Agrippa, 
of  Michael  Scott,  or  of  the  old  Orpheus  of  Thrace, — 


892  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

books  which  take  rank  in  our  life  with  parents  and 
lovers  and  passionate  experiences,  so  medicinal,  so 
stringent,  so  revolutionary,  so  authoritative,  —  books 
which  are  the  work  and  the  proof  of  faculties  so  com 
prehensive,  so  nearly  equal  to  the  world  which  they 
paint,  that,  though  one  shuts  them  with  meaner  ones, 
he  feels  his  exclusion  from  them  to  accuse  his  way  of 
living. 

Consider  what  you  have  in  the  smallest  chosen 
library.  A  company  of  the  wisest  and  wittiest  men 
that  could  be  picked  out  of  all  countries,  in  a  thou 
sand  years,  have  set  in  best  order  the  results  of  their 
learning  and  wisdom.  The  men  themselves  were  hid 
and  inaccessible,  solitary,  impatient  of  interruption, 
fenced  by  etiquette ;  but  the  thought  which  they  did 
not  uncover  to  their  bosom  friend  is  here  written  out 
in  transparent  words  to  us,  the  strangers  of  another 
age. 

We  owe  to  books  those  general  benefits  which  come 
from  high  intellectual  action.  Thus,  I  think,  we  often 
owe  to  them  the  perception  of  immortality.  They 
impart  sympathetic  activity  to  the  moral  power.  Go 
with  mean  people,  and  you  think  life  is  mean.  Then 
read  Plutarch,  and  the  world  is  a  proud  place,  peopled 
with  men  of  positive  quality,  with  heroes  and  demi 
gods  standing  around  us,  who  will  not  let  us  sleep. 
Then,  they  address  the  imagination :  only  poetry 
inspires  poetry.  They  become  the  organic  culture  of 
the  time.  College  education  is  the  reading  of  certain 
books  which  the  common-sense  of  all  scholars  agrees 
will  represent  the  science  already  accumulated.  If 
you  know  that,  —  for  instance  in  geometry,  if  you 
have  read  Euclid  and  Laplace,  —  your  opinion  has 
some  value ;  if  you  do  not  know  these,  you  are  not 


BOOKS.  393 

entitled  to  give  any  opinion  on  the  subject.  When 
ever  any  sceptic  or  bigot  claims  to  be  heard  on  the 
questions  of  intellect  and  morals,  we  ask  if  he  is  famil 
iar  with  the  books  of  Plato,  where  all  his  pert  objec 
tions  have  once  for  all  been  disposed  of.  If  not,  he 
has  no  right  to  our  time.  Let  him  go  and  find  him 
self  answered  there. 

Meantime  the  colleges,  whilst  they  provide  us  with 
libraries,  furnish  no  professor  of  books  ;  and,  I  think, 
no  chair  is  so  much  wanted.  In  a  library  we  are  sur 
rounded  by  many  hundreds  of  dear  friends,  but  they 
are  imprisoned  by  an  enchanter  in  these  paper  and 
leathern  boxes  ;  and,  though  they  know  us,  and  have 
been  waiting  two,  ten,  or  twenty  centuries  for  us,  — 
some  of  them,  —  and  are  eager  to  give  us  a  sign,  and 
unbosom  themselves,  it  is  the  law  of  their  limbo  that 
they  must  not  speak  until  spoken  to ;  and  as  the 
enchanter  has  dressed  them,  like  battalions  of  infan 
try,  in  coat  and  jacket  of  one  cut,  by  the  thousand 
and  ten  thousand,  your  chance  of  hitting  on  the  right 
one  is  to  be  computed  by  the  arithmetical  rule  of  Per 
mutation  and  Combination,  —  not  a  choice  out  of 
three  caskets,  but  out  of  half  a  million  caskets  all 
alike.  But  it  happens  in  our  experience,  that  in  this 
lottery  there  are  at  least  fifty  or  a  hundred  blanks  to 
a  prize.  It  seems,  then,  as  if  some  charitable  soul, 
after  losing  a  great  deal  of  time  among  the  false 
books,  and  alighting  upon  a  few  true  ones  which  made 
him  happy  and  wise,  would  do  a  right  act  in  naming 
those  which  have  been  bridges  or  ships  to  carry  him 
safely  over  dark  morasses  and  barren  oceans,  into  the 
heart  of  sacred  cities,  into  palaces  and  temples.  This 
would  be  best  done  by  those  great  masters  of  books 
who  from  time  to  time  appear,  —  the  Fabricii,  the 


394  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Seldens,  Magliabecchis,  Scaligers,  Mirandolas,  Bayles, 
Johnsons,  whose  eyes  sweep  the  whole  horizon  of  learn 
ing.  But  private  readers,  reading  purely  for  love  of 
the  book,  would  serve  us  by  leaving  each  the  shortest 
note  of  what  he  found. 

There  are  books  ;  and  it  is  practicable  to  read  them, 
because  they  are  so  few.  We  look  over  with  a  sigh 
the  monumental  libraries  of  Paris,  of  the  Vatican,  and 
the  British  Museum.  In  1858,  the  number  of  printed 
books  in  the  Imperial  Library  at  Paris  was  estimated 
at  eight  hundred  thousand  volumes;  with  an  annual 
increase  of  twelve  thousand  volumes ;  so  that  the 
number  of  printed  books  extant  to-day  may  easily 
exceed  a  million.  It  is  easy  to  count  the  number  of 
pages  which  a  diligent  man  can  read  in  a  day,  and 
the  number  of  years  which  human  life  in  favorable 
circumstances  allows  to  reading ;  and  to  demonstrate 
that,  though  he  should  read  from  dawn  till  dark,  for 
sixty  years,  he  must  die  in  the  first  alcoves.  But 
nothing  can  be  more  deceptive  than  this  arithmetic, 
where  none  but  a  natural  method  is  really  pertinent. 
I  visit  occasionally  the  Cambridge  Library,  and  I  can 
seldom  go  there  without  renewing  the  conviction  that 
the  best  of  it  all  is  already  within  the  four  walls  of 
my  study  at  home.  The  inspection  of  the  catalogue 
brings  me  continually  back  to  the  few  standard  writ 
ers  who  are  on  every  private  shelf ;  and  to  these  it 
can  afford  only  the  most  slight  and  casual  additions. 
The  crowds  and  centuries  of  books  are  only  commen 
tary  and  elucidation,  echoes  and  weakeners  of  these 
few  great  voices  of  Time. 

The  best  rule  of  reading  will  be  a  method  from 
nature,  and  not  a  mechanical  one  of  hours  and  pages. 
It  holds  each  student  to  a  pursuit  of  his  native  aim, 


BOOKS.  395 

instead  of  desultory  miscellany.  Let  him  read  what 
is  proper  to  him,  and  not  waste  his  memory  on  a 
crowd  of  mediocrities.  As  whole  nations  have  derived 
their  culture  from  a  single  book,  —  as  the  Bible  has 
been  the  literature  as  well  as  the  religion  of  large  por 
tions  of  Europe,  —  as  Hafiz  was  the  eminent  genius 
of  the  Persians,  Confucius  of  the  Chinese,  Cervantes 
of  the  Spaniards  ;  so,  perhaps,  the  human  mind  would 
be  a  gainer,  if  all  the  secondary  writers  were  lost,  — 
say,  in  England,  all  but  Shakespeare,  Milton,  and 
Bacon,  —  through  the  prof  ounder  study  so  drawn  to 
those  wonderful  minds.  With  this  pilot  of  his  own 
genius,  let  the  student  read  one,  or  let  him  read  many, 
he  will  read  advantageously.  Dr.  Johnson  said; 
"  Whilst  you  stand  deliberating  which  book  your  son 
shall  read  first,  another  boy  has  read  both;  read 
anything  five  hours  a  day,  and  you  will  soon  be 
learned." 

Nature  is  much  our  friend  in  this  matter.  Nature 
is  always  clarifying  her  water  and  her  wine.  No  fil 
tration  can  be  so  perfect.  She  does  the  same  thing 
by  books  as  by  her  gases  and  plants.  There  is  always 
a  selection  in  writers,  and  then  a  selection  from  the 
selection.  In  the  first  place,  all  books  that  get  fairly 
into  the  vital  air  of  the  world  were  written  by  the 
successful  class,  by  the  affirming  and  advancing  class, 
who  utter  what  tens  of  thousands  feel  though  they 
cannot  say.  There  has  already  been  a  scrutiny  and 
choice  for  many  hundreds  of  young  pens,  before  the 
pamphlet  or  political  chapter  which  you  read  in  a 
fugitive  journal  comes  to  your  eye.  All  these  are 
young  adventurers,  who  produce  their  performance  to 
the  wise  ear  of  Time,  who  sits  and  weighs,  and,  ten 
years  hence,  out  of  a  million  of  pages  reprints  one. 


396  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Again  it  is  judged,  it  is  winnowed  by  all  tlie  winds  of 
opinion,  and  what  terrific  selection  has  not  passed  on 
it  before  it  can  be  reprinted  after  twenty  years,  — 
and  reprinted  after  a  century  !  —  it  is  as  if  Minos  and 
Rhadamanthus  had  indorsed  the  writing.  'T  is  there 
fore  an  economy  of  time  to  read  old  and  famed  books. 
Nothing  can  be  preserved  which  is  not  good ;  and  I 
know  beforehand  that  Pindar,  Martial,  Terence,  Galen, 
Kepler,  Galileo,  Bacon,  Erasmus,  More,  will  be  supe 
rior  to  the  average  intellect.  In  contemporaries,  it  is 
not  so  easy  to  distinguish  betwixt  notoriety  and  fame. 

Be  sure,  then,  to  read  no  mean  books.  Shun  the 
spawn  of  the  press  or  the  gossip  of  the  hour.  Do  not 
read  what  you  shall  learn,  without  asking,  in  the 
street  and  the  train.  Dr.  Johnson  said  he  "  always 
went  into  stately  shops  ;  "  and  good  travellers  stop  at 
the  best  hotels  ;  for,  though  they  cost  more,  they  do 
not  cost  much  more,  and  there  is  the  good  company 
and  the  best  information.  In  like  manner,  the  scholar 
knows  that  the  famed  books  contain,  first  and  last, 
the  best  thoughts  and  facts.  Now  and  then,  by  rarest 
luck,  in  some  foolish  Grub  Street  is  the  gem  we  want. 
But  in  the  best  circles  is  the  best  information.  If 
you  should  transfer  the  amount  of  your  reading  day 
by  day  from  the  newspaper  to  the  standard  authors  — 
But  who  dare  speak  of  such  a  thing  ? 

The  three  practical  rules,  then,  which  I  have  to 
offer,  are,  —  1.  Never  read  any  book  that  is  not  a 
year  old.  2.  Never  read  any  but  famed  books.  3. 
Never  read  any  but  what  you  like ;  or,  in  Shakes 
peare's  phrase, 

"  No  profit  goes  where  is  no  pleasure  ta'en  : 
In  brief,  sir,  study  what  you  most  affect." 

Montaigne  says,  "  Books  are  a  languid  pleasure  ; " 


BOOKS.  397 

but  I  find  certain  books  vital  and  spermatic,  not  leav 
ing  the  reader  what  he  was :  he  shuts  the  book  a  richer 
man.  I  would  never  willingly  read  any  others  than 
such.  And  I  will  venture,  at  the  risk  of  inditing  a 
list  of  old  primers  and  grammars,  to  count  the  few 
books  which  a  superficial  reader  must  thankfully  use. 
Of  the  old  Greek  books,  I  think  there  are  five 
which  we  cannot  spare  :  1.  Homer,  who,  in  spite  of 
Pope  and  all  the  learned  uproar  of  centuries,  has 
really  the  true  fire,  and  is  good  for  simple  minds,  is 
the  true  and  adequate  germ  of  Greece,  and  occupies 
that  place  as  history,  which  nothing  can  supply.  It 
holds  through  all  literature,  that  our  best  history  is 
still  poetry.  It  is  so  in  Hebrew,  in  Sanscrit,  and 
in  Greek.  English  history  is  best  known  through 
Shakespeare  ;  how  much  through  Merlin,  Robin  Hood, 
and  the  Scottish  ballads !  —  the  German,  through  the 
Nibelungenlied,  —  the  Spanish,  through  the  Cid.  Of 
Homer,  George  Chapman's  is  the  heroic  translation, 
though  the  most  literal  prose  version  is  the  best  of  all. 
2.  Herodotus,  whose  history  contains  inestimable  an 
ecdotes,  which  brought  it  with  the  learned  into  a  sort 
of  disesteem  ;  but  in  these  days,  when  it  is  found  that 
what  is  most  memorable  of  history  is  a  few  anecdotes, 
and  that  we  need  not  be  alarmed  though  we  should 
find  it  not  dull,  it  is  regaining  credit.  3.  ^Esehylus, 
the  grandest  of  the  three  tragedians,  who  has  given 
us  under  a  thin  veil  the  first  plantation  of  Europe. 
The  "  Prometheus  "  is  a  poem  of  the  like  dignity  and 
scope  as  the  Book  of  Job,  or  the  Norse  Edda.  4.  Of 
Plato  I  hesitate  to  speak,  lest  there  should  be  no  end. 
You  find  in  him  that  which  you  have  already  found  in 
Homer,  now  ripened  to  thought,  —  the  poet  converted 
to  a  philosopher,  with  loftier  strains  of  musical  wis- 


398  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

dom  than  Homer  reached ;  as  if  Homer  were  the 
youth,  and  Plato  the  finished  man ;  yet  with  no  less 
security  of  bold  and  perfect  song,  when  he  cares  to 
use  it,  and  with  some  harp-strings  fetched  from  a 
higher  heaven.  He  contains  the  future,  as  he  came 
out  of  the  past.  In  Plato,  you  explore  modern  Eu 
rope  in  its  causes  and  seed,  —  all  that  in  thought, 
which  the  history  of  Europe  embodies  or  has  yet  to 
embody.  The  well-informed  man  finds  himself  anti 
cipated.  Plato  is  up  with  him  too.  Nothing  has  es 
caped  him.  Every  new  crop  in  the  fertile  harvest  of 
reform,  every  fresh  suggestion  of  modern  humanity,  is 
there.  If  the  student  wish  to  see  both  sides,  and  jus 
tice  done  to  the  man  of  the  world,  pitiless  exposure  of 
pedants,  and  the  supremacy  of  truth  and  the  religious 
sentiment,  he  shall  be  contented  also.  Why  should 
not  young  men  be  educated  on  this  book  ?  It  would 
suffice  for  the  tuition  of  the  race,  —  to  test  their  un 
derstanding,  and  to  express  their  reason.  Here  is 
that  which  is  so  attractive  to  all  men,  —  the  literature 
of  aristocracy,  shall  I  call  it  ?  —  the  picture  of  the 
best  persons,  sentiments,  and  manners,  by  the  first 
master,  in  the  best  times,  —  portraits  of  Pericles, 
Alcibiades,  Crito,  Prodicus,  Protagoras,  Anaxagoras, 
and  Socrates,  with  the  lovely  background  of  the  Athe 
nian  and  suburban  landscape.  Or  who  can  overesti 
mate  the  images  with  which  Plato  has  enriched  the 
minds  of  men,  and  which  pass  like  bullion  in  the  cur 
rency  of  all  nations  ?  Read  the  "  Phffido,"  the  "  Pro 
tagoras,"  the  "  Phaedrus,"  the  "  Tiinams,"  the  "  Re 
public,"  and  the  "  Apology  of  Socrates."  5.  Plu 
tarch  cannot  be  spared  from  the  smallest  library ; 
first,  because  he  is  so  readable,  which  is  much  ;  then, 
that  he  is  medicinal  and  invigorating.  The  lives  of 


BOOKS.  399 

Cimon,  Lycurgus,  Alexander,  Demosthenes,  Phocion, 
Marcellus,  and  the  rest,  are  what  history  has  of  best. 
But  this  book  has  taken  care  of  itself,  and  the  opinion 
of  the  world  is  expressed  in  the  innumerable  cheap 
editions,  which  make  it  as  accessible  as  a  newspaper. 
But  Plutarch's  "  Morals  "  is  less  known,  and  seldom 
reprinted.1  Yet  such  a  reader  as  I  am  writing  to  can 
as  ill  spare  it  as  the  "  Lives."  He  will  read  in  it  the 
essays  "  On  the  Daemon  of  Socrates,"  "  On  Isis  and 
Osiris,"  "  On  Progress  in  Virtue,"  "  On  Garrulity," 
"  On  Love,"  and  thank  anew  the  art  of  printing,  and 
the  cheerful  domain  of  ancient  thinking.  Plutarch 
charms  by  the  facility  of  his  associations ;  so  that  it 
signifies  little  where  you  open  his  book,  you  find  your 
self  at  the  Olympian  tables.  His  memory  is  like  the 
Isthmian  Games,  where  all  that  was  excellent  in 
Greece  was  assembled,  and  you  are  stimulated  and 
recruited  by  lyric  verses,  by  philosophic  sentiments, 
by  the  forms  and  behavior  of  heroes,  by  the  worship 
of  the  gods,  and  by  the  passing  of  fillets,  parsley  and 
laurel  wreaths,  chariots,  armor,  sacred  cups,  and  uten 
sils  of  sacrifice.  An  inestimable  trilogy  of  ancient 
social  pictures  are  the  three  "  Banquets  "  respectively 
of  Plato,  Xenophon,  and  Plutarch.  Plutarch's  has 
the  least  approach  to  historical  accuracy ;  but  the 
meeting  of  the  Seven  Wise  Masters  is  a  charming 
portraiture  of  ancient  manners  and  discourse,  and  is 
as  clear  as  the  voice  of  a  fife,  and  entertaining  as  a 
French  novel.  Xenophon's  delineation  of  Athenian 
manners  is  an  accessory  to  Plato,  and  supplies  traits 
of  Socrates  ;  whilst  Plato's  has  merits  of  every  kind, 

1  After  the  first  publication  of  this  essay  the  book  was  issued 
under  the  editorship  of  Professor  Goodwin  of  Harvard,  and 
with  an  introduction  by  Mr.  Emerson. 


400  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

—  being  a  repertory  of  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients  on 
the  subject  of  love,  —  a  picture  of  a  feast  of  wits,  not 
less  descriptive  than  Aristophanes,  —  and,  lastly,  con 
taining  that  ironical  eulogy  of  Socrates  which  is  the 
source  from  which  all  the  portraits  of  that  philoso 
pher  current  in  Europe  have  been  drawn. 

Of  course  a  certain  outline  should  be  obtained  of 
Greek  history,  in  which  the  important  moments  and 
persons  can  be  rightly  set  down ;  but  the  shortest  is 
the  best,  and  if  one  lacks  stomach  for  Mr.  Grote's  vo 
luminous  annals,  the  old  slight  and  popular  summary 
of  Goldsmith  or  of  Gillies  will  serve.  The  valuable 
part  is  the  age  of  Pericles  and  the  next  generation. 
And  here  we  must  read  the  "  Clouds  "  of  Aristopha 
nes,  and  what  more  of  that  master  we  gain  appetite 
for,  to  learn  our  way  in  the  streets  of  Athens,  and 
to  know  the  tyranny  of  Aristophanes,  requiring  more 
genius  and  sometimes  not  less  cruelty  than  belonged 
to  the  official  commanders.  Aristophanes  is  now  very 
accessible,  with  much  valuable  commentary,  through 
the  labors  of  Mitchell  and  Cartwright.  An  excellent 
popular  book  is  J.  A.  St.  John's  "  Ancient  Greece ; " 
the  "  Life  and  Letters  "  of  Niebuhr,  even  more  than 
his  Lectures,  furnishes  leading  views  ;  and  Winckel- 
mann,  a  Greek  born  out  of  due  time,  has  become 
essential  to  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  Attic 
genius.  The  secret  of  the  recent  histories  in  German 
and  in  English  is  the  discovery,  owed  first  to  Wolff, 
and  later  to  Boeckh,  that  the  sincere  Greek  history  of 
that  period  must  be  drawn  from  Demosthenes,  espe 
cially  from  the  business  orations,  and  from  the  comic 
poets. 

If  we  come  down  a  little  by  natural  steps  from  the 
master  to  the  disciples,  we  have,  six  or  seven  centuries 


BOOKS.  401 

later,  the  Platonists,  —  who  also  cannot  be  skipped, 
—  Plotinus,  Porphyry,  Proclus,  Synesius,  Jamblichus. 
Of  Jamblichus  the  Emperor  Julian  said  that  "  he  was 
posterior  to  Plato  in  time,  not  in  genius."  Of  Ploti 
nus,  we  have  eulogies  by  Porphyry  and  Longinus,  and 
the  favor  of  the  Emperor  Gallienus,  —  indicating  the 
respect  he  inspired  among  his  contemporaries.  If  any 
one  who  had  read  with  interest  the  "  Isis  and  Osiris  " 
of  Plutarch  should  then  read  a  chapter  called  "  Provi 
dence,"  by  Synesius,  translated  into  English  by  Thomas 
Taylor,  he  will  find  it  one  of  the  majestic  remains  of 
literature,  and,  like  one  walking  in  the  noblest  of  tem 
ples,  will  conceive  new  gratitude  to  his  fellow-men,  and 
a  new  estimate  of  their  nobility.  The  imaginative 
scholar  will  find  few  stimalants  to  his  brain  like  these 
writers.  He  has  entered  the  Elysian  Fields ;  and  the 
grand  and  pleasing  figures  of  gods  and  demons  and 
demoniacal  men,  of  the  "  azonic  "  and  the  "  aquatic 
gods,"  demons  with  fulgid  eyes  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
Platonic  rhetoric,  exalted  a  little  under  the  African 
sun,  sail  before  his  eyes.  The  acolyte  has  mounted 
the  tripod  over  the  cave  at  Delphi ;  his  heart  dances, 
his  sight  is  quickened.  These  guides  speak  of  the 
gods  with  such  depth  and  with  such  pictorial  details, 
as  if  they  had  been  bodily  present  at  the  Olympian 
feasts.  The  reader  of  these  books  makes  new  acquain 
tance  with  his  own  mind  ;  new  regions  of  thought  are 
opened.  Jamblichus's  "  Life  of  Pythagoras "  works 
more  directly  on  the  will  than  others  ;  since  Pytha 
goras  was  eminently  a  practical  person,  the  founder  of 
a  school  of  ascetics  and  socialists,  a  planter  of  colo 
nies,  and  nowise  a  man  of  abstract  studies  alone. 

The  respectable  and   sometimes  excellent  transla 
tions  of  Bohii's  Library  have  done  for  literature  what 


402  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

railroads  have  done  for  internal  intercourse.  I  do  not 
hesitate  to  read  all  the  books  I  have  named,  and  all 
good  books,  in  translations.  What  is  really  best  in 
any  book  is  translatable,  —  any  real  insight  or  broad 
human  sentiment.  Nay,  I  observe  that,  in  our  Bible, 
and  other  books  of  lofty  moral  tone,  it  seems  easy  and* 
inevitable  to  render  the  rhythm  and  music  of  the  ori 
ginal  into  phrases  of  equal  melody.  The  Italians 
have  a  fling  at  translators,  —  i  traditori  traduttori; 
but  I  thank  them.  I  rarely  read  any  Latin,  Greek, 
German,  Italian,  sometimes  not  a  French  book  in  the 
original,  which  I  can  procure  in  a  good  version.  I 
like  to  be  beholden  to  the  great  metropolitan  English 
speech,  the  sea  which  receives  tributaries  from  every 
region  under  heaven.  I  should  as  soon  think  of  swim 
ming  across  Charles  River  when  I  wish  to  go  to  Bos 
ton,  as  of  reading  all  my  books  in  originals,  when  I 
have  them  rendered  for  me  in  my  mother  tongue. 

For  history  there  is  great  choice  of  ways  to  bring 
the  student  through  early  Rome.  If  he  can  read 
Livy,  he  has  a  good  book ;  but  one  of  the  short  Eng 
lish  compeuds,  some  Goldsmith  or  Ferguson,  should 
be  used,  that  will  place  in  the  cycle  the  bright  stars 
of  Plutarch.  The  poet  Horace  is  the  eye  of  the  Au 
gustan  age;  Tacitus,  the  wisest  of  historians;  and 
Martial  will  give  him  Roman  manners,  —  and  some 
very  bad  ones,  —  in  the  early  days  of  the  Empire  ; 
but  Martial  must  be  read,  if  read  at  all,  in  his  own 
tongue.  These  will  bring  him  to  Gibbon,  who  will 
take  him  in  charge,  and  convey  him  with  abundant 
entertainment  down  —  with  notice  of  all  remarkable 
objects  on  the  way  —  through  fourteen  hundred  years 
of  time.  He  cannot  spare  Gibbon,  with  his  vast  read 
ing, —  with  such  wit  and  continuity  of  mind,  that, 


BOOKS.  403 

though  never  profound,  his  book  is  one  of  the  conven 
iences  of  civilization,  like  the  new  railroad  from  ocean 
to  ocean,  —  and,  I  think,  will  be  sure  to  send  the 
reader  to  his  "  Memoirs  of  Himself,"  and  the  "  Ex 
tracts  from  my  Journal,"  and  "  Abstracts  of  my  Read 
ings,"  which  will  spur  the  laziest  scholar  to  emulation 
of  his  prodigious  performance. 

Now  having  our  idler  safe  down  as  far  as  the  fall 
of  Constantinople  in  1453,  he  is  in  very  good  courses  : 
for  here  are  trusty  hands  waiting  for  him.  The  cardi 
nal  facts  of  European  history  are  soon  learned.  There 
is  Dante's  poem,  to  open  the  Italian  Republics  of  the 
Middle  Age;  Dante's  "Vita  Nuova,"to  explain  Dante 
and  Beatrice ;  and  Boccaccio's  "  Life  of  Dante," 
—  a  great  man  to  describe  a  greater.  To  help  us, 
perhaps  a  volume  or  two  of  M.  Sismondi's  "  Italian 
Republics"  will  be  as  good  as  the  entire  sixteen. 
When  we  come  to  Michel  Angelo,  his  Sonnets  and 
Letters  must  be  read,  with  his  Life  by  Vasari,  or,  in 
our  day,  by  Herman  Grimm.  For  the  Church,  and 
the  Feudal  Institution,  Mr.  Hallam's  "  Middle  Ages  " 
will  furnish,  if  superficial,  yet  readable  and  conceiv 
able  outlines. 

The  "  Life  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V.,"  by  the  use 
ful  Robertson,  is  still  the  key  of  the  following  age. 
Ximenes,  Columbus,  Loyola,  Luther,  Erasmus,  Me- 
lanchthon,  Francis  I.,  Henry  VIII.,  Elizabeth,  and 
Henry  IV.  of  France,  are  his  contemporaries.  It  is  a 
time  of  seeds  and  expansions,  whereof  our  recent  civi 
lization  is  the  fruit. 

If  now  the  relations  of  England  to  European  affairs 
bring  him  to  British  ground,  he  is  arrived  at  the  very 
moment  when  modern  history  takes  ,new  proportions. 
He  can  look  back  for  the  legends  and  mythology  to 


404  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

the  "  Younger  Edda  "  and  the  "  Heimskringla  "  of 
Siiorro  Sturleson,  to  Mallet's  "  Northern  Antiquities," 
to  Ellis's  "  Metrical  Romances,"  to  Asser's  "  Life  of 
Alfred  "  and  Venerable  Bede,  and  to  the  researches  of 
Sharon  Turner  and  Palgrave.  Hume  will  serve  him 
for  an  intelligent  guide,  and  in  the  Elizabethan  era  he 
is  at  the  richest  period  of  the  English  mind,  with  the 
chief  men  of  action  and  of  thought  which  that  nation 
has  produced,  and  with  a  pregnant  future  before  him. 
Here  he  has  Shakespeare,  Spenser,  Sidney,  Raleigh, 
Bacon,  Chapman,  Jonson,  Ford,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  Herbert,  Donne,  Herrick ;  and  Milton,  Mar- 
Veil,  and  Dryden,  not  long  after. 

In  reading  history,  he  is  to  prefer  the  history  of 
individuals.  He  will  not  repent  the  time  he  gives  to 
Bacon,  —  not  if  he  read  the  "  Advancement  of  Learn 
ing,"  the  "  Essays,"  the  "  Novuin  Organum,"  the 
"  History  of  Henry  VII.,"  and  then  all  the  "  Letters  " 
(especially  those  to  the  Earl  of  Devonshire,  explain 
ing  the  Essex  business),  and  all  but  his  "Apoph 
thegms." 

The  task  is  aided  by  the  strong  mutual  light  which 
these  men  shed  on  each  other.  Thus,  the  works  of 
Ben  Jonson  are  a  sort  of  hoop  to  bind  all  these  fine 
persons  together,  and  to  the  land  to  which  they  belong. 
He  has  written  verses  to  or  on  all  his  notable  contem 
poraries;  and  what  with  so  many  occasional  poems, 
and  the  portrait  sketches  in  his  "  Discoveries,"  and 
the  gossiping  record  of  his  opinions  in  his  conversa 
tions  with  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  he  has  really 
illustrated  the  England  of  his  time,  if  not  to  the  same 
extent,  yet  much  in  the  same  way,  as  Walter  Scott 
has  celebrated  the  persons  and  places  of  Scotland. 
Walton,  Chapman,  Herrick,  and  Sir  Henry  Wotton 
write  also  t;o  the  times. 


BOOKS.  405 

Among  the  best  books  are  certain  Autobiographies  : 
as  St.  Augustine's  Confessions ;  Benvenuto  Cellini's 
Life ;  Montaigne's  Essays  ;  Lord  Herbert  of  Cher- 
bury's  Memoirs ;  Memoirs  of  the  Cardinal  de  Retz  ; 
Rousseau's  Confessions  ;  Linnaeus's  Diary  ;  Gibbon's, 
Hume's,  Franklin's,  Burns's,  Alfieri's,  Goethe's,  and 
Haydon's  Autobiographies. 

Another  class  of  books  closely  allied  to  these,  and 
of  like  interest,  are  those  which  may  be  called  Table- 
Talks :  of  which  the  best  are  Saadi's  Gulistan ; 
Luther's  Table-Talk ;  Aubrey's  Lives ;  Spence's  An 
ecdotes  ;  Selden's  Table-Talk ;  Boswell's  Life  of 
Johnson ;  Eckermann's  Conversations  with  Goethe  ; 
Coleridge's  Table-Talk ;  and  Hazlitt's  Life  of  North- 
cote. 

There  is  a  class  whose  value  I  should  designate  as 
favorites :  such  as  Froissart's  Chronicles ;  Southey's 
Chronicle  of  the  Cid  ;  Cervantes ;  Sully's  Memoirs  ; 
Rabelais  ;  Montaigne  ;  Izaak  Walton ;  Evelyn  ;  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  ;  Aubrey ;  Sterne ;  Horace  Walpole ; 
Lord  Clarendon ;  Doctor  Johnson ;  Burke,  shedding 
floods  of  light  on  his  times  ;  Lamb ;  Landor  ;  and  De 
Quincey, — a  list,  of  course,  that  may  be  easily  swelled, 
as  dependent  on  individual  caprice.  Many  men  are 
as  tender  and  irritable  as  lovers  in  reference  to  these 
predilections.  Indeed,  a  man's  library  is  a  sort  of 
harem,  and  I  observe  that  tender  readers  have  a 
great  pudency  in  showing  their  books  to  a  stranger. 

The  annals  of  bibliography  afford  many  examples 
of  the  delirious  extent  to  which  book-fancying  can  go, 
when  the  legitimate  delight  in  a  book  is  transferred  to 
a  rare  edition  or  to  a  manuscript.  This  mania  reached 
its  height  about  the  beginning  of  the  present  century. 
For  an  autograph  of  Shakespeare  one  hundred  and 


406  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

fifty-five  guineas  were  given.  In  May,  1812,  the 
library  of  the  Duke  of  Roxburgh  was  sold.  The 
sale  lasted  forty-two  days,  —  we  abridge  the  story 
from  Dibdin,  —  and  among  the  many  curiosities  was 
a  copy  of  Boccaccio  published  by  Valdarfer,  at  Venice, 
in  1471 ;  the  only  perfect  copy  of  this  edition.  Among 
the  distinguished  company  which  attended  the  sale 
were  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  Earl  Spencer,  and  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough,  then  Marquis  of  Blandford. 
The  bid  stood  at  five  hundred  guineas.  "  A  thousand 
guineas,"  said  Earl  Spencer.  "  And  ten,"  added  the 
marquis.  You  might  hear  a  pin  drop.  All  eyes 
were  bent  on  the  bidders.  Now  they  talked  apart, 
now  ate  a  biscuit,  now  made  a  bet,  but  without  the 
least  thought  of  yielding  one  to  the  other.  But  to 
pass  over  some  details,  —  the  contest  proceeded  until 
the  marquis  said,  "Two  thousand  pounds."  The 
Earl  Spencer  bethought  him  like  a  prudent  general 
of  useless  bloodshed  and  waste  of  powder,  and  had 
paused  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  when  Lord  Althorp 
with  long  steps  came  to  his  side,  as  if  to  bring  his 
father  a  fresh  lance  to  renew  the  fight.  Father  and 
son  whispered  together,  and  Earl  Spencer  exclaimed, 
"  Two  thousand  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds !  "  An 
electric  shock  went  through  the  assembly.  "  And 
ten,"  quietly  added  the  marquis.  There  ended  the 
strife.  Ere  Evans  let  the  hammer  fall,  he  paused  ,• 
the  ivory  instrument  swept  the  air ;  the  spectators 
stood  dumb,  when  the  hammer  fell.  The  stroke  of 
its  fall  sounded  on  the  farthest  shores  of  Italy.  The 
tap  of  that  hammer  was  heard  in  the  libraries  of 
Rome,  Milan,  and  Venice.  Boccaccio  stirred  in  his 
sleep  of  five  hundred  years,  and  M.  Van  Praet  groped 
in  vain  among  the  royal  alcoves  in  Paris,  to  detect 
a  copy  of  the  famed  Valdarfer  Boccaccio. 


BOOKS.  407 

Another  class  I  distinguish  by  the  term  Vocabula 
ries.  Burton's  "  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  "  is  a  book  of 
great  learning.  To  read  it  is  like  reading  in  a  diction 
ary.  'T  is  an  inventory  to  remind  us  how  many  classes 
and  species  of  facts  exist,  and  in  observing  into  what 
strange  and  multiplex  byways  learning  has  strayed,  to 
infer  our  opulence.  Neither  is  a  dictionary  a  bad 
book  to  read.  There  is  no  cant  in  it,  no  excess  of 
explanation,  and  it  is  full  of  suggestion,  —  the  raw 
material  of  possible  poems  and  histories.  Nothing  is 
wanting  but  a  little  shuffling,  sorting,  ligature,  and 
cartilage.  Out  of  a  hundred  examples,  Cornelius 
Agrippa  "  On  the  Vanity  of  Arts  and  Sciences  "  is  a 
specimen  of  that  scribatiousness  which  grew  to  be  the 
habit  of  the  gluttonous  reader  of  his  time.  Like  the 
modern  Germans,  they  read  a  literature  while  other 
mortals  read  a  few  books.  They  read  voraciously, 
and  must  disburden  themselves  ;  so  they  take  any  gen 
eral  topic,  as,  Melancholy,  or  Praise  of  Science,  or 
Praise  of  Folly,  and  write  and  quote  without  method 
or  end.  Now  and  then  out  of  that  affluence  of  their 
learning  comes  a  fine  sentence  from  Theophrastus,  or 
Seneca,  or  Boethius,  but  no  high  method,  no  inspiring 
efflux.  But  one  cannot  afford  to  read  for  a  few  sen 
tences  ;  they  are  good  only  as  strings  of  suggestive 
words. 

There  is  another  class,  more  needful  to  the  present 
age,  because  the  currents  of  custom  run  now  in  an 
other  direction,  and  leave  us  dry  on  this  side,  —  I 
mean  the  Imaginative.  A  right  metaphysics  should 
do  justice  to  the  coordinate  powers  of  Imagination, 
Insight,  Understanding,  and  Will.  Poetry,  with  its 
aids  of  Mythology  and  Romance,  must  be  well  allowed 
for  an  imaginative  creature.  Men  are  ever  lapsing 
into  a  beggarly  habit,  wherein  everything  that  is  not 


408  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

ciphering,  that  is,  which  does  not  serve  the  tyrannical 
animal,  is  hustled  out  of  sight.  Our  orators  and 
writers  are  of  the  same  poverty  ;  and,  in  this  rag-fair, 
neither  the  Imagination,  the  great  awakening  power, 
nor  the  Morals,  creative  of  genius  and  of  men,  are 
addressed.  But  though  orator  and  poet  be  of  this  hun 
ger  party,  the  capacities  remain.  We  must  have  sym 
bols.  The  child  asks  you  for  a  story,  and  is  thankful 
for  the  poorest.  It  is  not  poor  to  him,  but  radiant 
with  meaning.  The  man  asks  for  a  novel,  —  that  is, 
asks  leave  for  a  few  hours  to  be  a  poet,  and  to  paint 
things  as  they  ought  to  be.  The  youth  asks  for 
a  poem.  The  very  dunces  wish  to  go  to  the  theatre. 
What  private  heavens  can  we  not  open,  by  yielding 
to  all  the  suggestion  of  rich  music !  We  must  have 
idolatries,  mythologies,  —  some  swing  and  verge  for 
the  creative  power  lying  coiled  and  cramped  here, 
driving  ardent  natures  to  insanity  and  crime  if  it  do 
not  find  vent.  Without  the  great  arts  which  speak  to 
the  sense  of  beauty,  a  man  seems  to  me  a  poor,  naked, 
shivering  creature.  These  are  his  becoming  draperies, 
which  warm  and  adorn  him.  Whilst  the  prudential 
and  economical  tone  of  society  starves  the  imagination, 
affronted  Nature  gets  such  indemnity  as  she  may. 
The  novel  is  that  allowance  and  frolic  the  imagination 
finds.  Everything  else  pins  it  down,  and  men  flee  for 
redress  to  Byron,  Scott,  Disraeli,  Dumas,  Sand,  Bal 
zac,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  Reade.  Their  educa 
tion  is  neglected ;  but  the  circulating  library  and  the 
theatre,  as  well  as  the  trout-fishing,  the  Notch  Moun 
tains,  the  Adirondack  country,  the  tour  to  Mont  Blanc, 
to  the  White  Hills,  and  the  Ghauts,  make  such 
amends  as  they  can. 

The  imagination  infuses  a  certain  volatility  and  in- 


BOOKS.  409 

toxication.  It  has  a  flute  which  sets  the  atoms  of  our 
frame  in  a  dance,  like  planets  ;  and,  once  so  liberated, 
the  whole  man  reeling  drunk  to  the  music,  they  never 
quite  subside  to  their  old  stony  state.  But  what  is 
the  imagination  ?  Only  an  arm  or  weapon  of  the  in 
terior  energy  ;  only  the  precursor  of  the  reason. 
And  books  that  treat  the  old  pedantries  of  the  world, 
our  times,  places,  professions,  customs,  opinions,  his 
tories,  with  a  certain  freedom,  and  distribute  things, 
not  after  the  usages  of  America  and  Europe,  but  after 
the  laws  of  right  reason,  and  with  as  daring  a  freedom 
as  we  use  in  dreams,  put  us  on  our  feet  again,  and 
enable  us  to  form  an  original  judgment  of  our  duties, 
and  suggest  new  thoughts  for  to-morrow. 

"  Lucrezia  Floriani,"  "  Le  Peche  de  M.  Antoine," 
"  Jeanne,"  and  "  Consuelo,"  of  George  Sand,  are 
great  steps  from  the  novel  of  one  termination,  which 
we  all  read  twenty  years  ago.  Yet  how  far  off  from 
life  and  manners  and  motives  the  novel  still  is  !  Life 
lies  about  us  dumb ;  the  day,  as  we  know  it,  has  not 
yet  found  a  tongue.  These  stories  are  to  the  plots  of 
real  life  what  the  figures  in  "  La  Belle  Assemblee," 
which  represent  the  fashion  of  the  month,  are  to  por 
traits.  But  the  novel  will  find  the  way  to  our  interi 
ors  one  day,  and  will  not  always  be  the  novel  of  cos 
tume  merely.  I  do  not  think  it  inoperative  now. 
So  much  novel-reading  cannot  leave  the  young  men 
and  maidens  untouched ;  and  doubtless  it  gives  some 
ideal  dignity  to  the  day.  The  young  study  noble  be 
havior  ;  and  as  the  player  in  "  Consuelo  "  insists  that 
he  and  his  colleagues  on  the  boards  have  taught 
princes  the  fine  etiquette  and  strokes  of  grace  and 
dignity  which  they  practise  with  so  much  effect  in 
their  villas  and  among  their  dependents,  so  I  often 


410  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

see  traces  of  the  Scotch  or  the  French  novel  in  the 
courtesy  and  brilliancy  of  young  midshipmen,  colle 
gians,  and  clerks.  Indeed,  when  one  observes  how 
ill  and  ugly  people  make  their  loves  and  quarrels,  't  is 
pity  they  should  not  read  novels  a  little  more,  to  im 
port  the  fine  generosities,  and  the  clear,  firm  conduct, 
which  are  as  becoming  in  the  unions  and  separations 
which  love  effects  under  shingle  roofs  as  in  palaces 
and  among  illustrious  personages. 

In  novels  the  most  serious  questions  are  beginning 
to  be  discussed.  What  made  the  popularity  of  "  Jane 
Eyre,"  but  that  a  central  question  was  answered  in 
some  sort?  The  question  there  answered  in  regard 
to  a  vicious  marriage  will  always  be  treated  according 
to  the  habit  of  the  party.  A  person  of  commanding 
individualism  will  answer  it  as  Rochester  does,  —  as 
Cleopatra,  as  Milton,  as  George  Sand  do,  —  magni 
fying  the  exception  into  a  rule,  dwarfing  the  world 
into  an  exception.  A  person  of  less  courage,  that  is, 
of  less  constitution,  will  answer  as  the  heroine  does, 
—  giving  way  to  fate,  to  conventionalism,  to  the  ac 
tual  state  and  doings  of  men  and  women. 

For  the  most  part,  our  novel-reading  is  a  passion  for 
results.  We  admire  parks  and  high-born  beauties, 
and  the  homage  of  drawing-rooms,  and  parliaments. 
They  make  us  sceptical,  by  giving  prominence  to 
wealth  and  social  position. 

I  remember  when  some  peering  eyes  of  boys  discov 
ered  that  the  oranges  hanging  on  the  boughs  of  an 
orange-tree  in  a  gay  piazza  were  tied  to  the  twigs  by 
thread.  I  fear  't  is  so  with  the  novelist's  prosperities. 
Nature  has  a  magic  by  which  she  fits  the  man  to  his 
fortunes,  by  making  them  the  fruit  of  his  character. 
But  the  novelist  plucks  this  event  here,  and  that  for- 


BOOKS.  411 

tune  there,  and  ties  them  rashly  to  his  figures,  to 
tickle  the  fancy  of  his  readers  with  a  cloying  success, 
or  scare  them  with  shocks  of  tragedy.  And  so,  on 
the  whole,  't  is  a  juggle.  We  are  cheated  into  laugh 
ter  or  wonder  by  feats  which  only  oddly  combine  acts 
that  we  do  every  day.  There  is  no  new  element,  no 
power,  no  furtherance.  'T  is  only  confectionery,  not 
the  raising  of  new  corn.  Great  is  the  poverty  of  their 
inventions.  She  was  beautiful,  and  he  fell  in  love. 
Money,  and  killing,  and  the  Wandering  Jew,  and 
persuading  the  lover  that  his  mistress  is  betrothed  to 
another,  —  these  are  the  mainsprings ;  new  names, 
but  110  new  qualities  in  the  men  and  women.  Hence 
the  vain  endeavor  to  keep  any  bit  of  this  fairy  gold, 
which  has  rolled  like  a  brook  through  our  hands.  A 
thousand  thoughts  awoke ;  great  rainbows  seemed  to 
span  the  sky,  —  a  morning  among  the  mountains ;  — 
but  we  close  the  book,  and  not  a  ray  remains  in  the 
memory  of  evening.  But  this  passion  for  romance, 
and  this  disappointment,  show  how  much  we  need 
real  elevations  and  pure  poetry :  that  which  shall 
show  us,  in  morning  and  night,  in  stars  and  moun 
tains,  and  in  all  the  plight  and  circumstance  of  men, 
the  analogons  of  our  own  thoughts,  and  a  like  impres 
sion  made  by  a  just  book  and  by  the  face  of  Nature. 

If  our  times  are  sterile  in  genius,  we  must  cheer  us 
with  books  of  rich  and  believing  men  who  had  atmos 
phere  and  amplitude  about  them.  Every  good  fable, 
every  mythology,  every  biography  from  a  religious 
age,  every  passage  of  love,  and  even  philosophy  and 
science,  when  they  proceed  from  an  intellectual  integ 
rity,  and  are  not  detached  and  critical,  have  the  im 
aginative  element.  The  Greek  fables,  the  Persian 
history  (Firdusi),  the  "  Younger  Edda  "  of  the  Scan" 


412  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

dinavians,  the  "  Chronicle  of  the  Cid,"  the  poem  of 
Dante,  the  Sonnets  of  Michel  Angelo,  the  English 
drama  of  Shakespeare,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and 
Ford,  and  even  the  prose  of  Bacon  and  Milton,  —  in 
our  time,  the  Ode  of  Wordsworth,  and  the  poems  and 
the  prose  of  Goethe,  have  this  enlargement,  and  in 
spire  hope  and  generous  attempts. 

There  is  no  room  left,  —  and  yet  I  might  as  well 
not  have  begun  as  to  leave  out  a  class  of  books  which 
are  the  best :  I  mean  the  Bibles  of  the  world,  or  the 
sacred  books  of  each  nation,  which  express  for  each 
the  supreme  result  of  their  experience.  After  the 
Hebrew  and  Greek  Scriptures,  which  constitute  the 
sacred  books  of  Christendom,  these  are  the  Desatir 
of  the  Persians,  and  the  Zoroastrian  Oracles  5  the  Ve- 
das  and  Laws  of  Menu ;  the  Upanishads,  the  Vishnu 
Purana,  the  Bhagvat  Geeta,  of  the  Hindoos ;  the 
books  of  the  Buddhists ;  the  "  Chinese  Classic,"  of 
four  books,  containing  the  wisdom  of  Confucius  and 
Mencius.  Also  such  other  books  as  have  acquired  a 
semi-canonical  authority  in  the  world,  as  expressing 
the  highest  sentiment  and  hope  of  nations.  Such  are 
the  "  Hermes  Trismegistus,"  pretending  to  be  Egyp 
tian  remains ;  the  "  Sentences  "  of  Epictetus  ;  of 
Marcus  Antoninus  ;  the  "  Vishnu  Sarma  "  of  the 
Hindoos  ;  the  "  Gulistan  "  of  Saadi ;  the  "  Imitation 
of  Christ,"  of  Thomas  a  Kempis  ;  and  the  "  Thoughts  " 
of  Pascal. 

All  these  books  are  the  majestic  expressions  of  the 
universal  conscience,  and  are  more  to  our  daily  pur 
pose  than  this  year's  almanac  or  this  day's  newspaper. 
But  they  are  for  the  closet,  and  to  be  read  on  the 
bended  knee.  Their  communications  are  not  to  be 
given  or  taken  with  the  lips  and  the  end  of  the  tongue, 


BOOKS.  413 

but  out  of  the  glow  of  the  cheek,  and  with  the  throb 
bing  heart.  Friendship  should  give  and  take,  soli 
tude  and  time  brood  and  ripen,  heroes  absorb  and 
enact  them.  They  are  not  to  be  held  by  letters 
printed  on  a  page,  but  are  living  characters  translat 
able  into  every  tongue  and  form  of  life.  I  read  them 
on  lichens  and  bark ;  I  watch  them  on  waves  on  the 
beach  ;  they  fly  in  birds,  they  creep  in  worms  ;  I  de 
tect  them  in  laughter  and  blushes  and  eye-sparkles  of 
men  and  women.  These  are  Scriptures  which  the 
missionary  might  well  carry  over  prairie,  desert,  and 
ocean,  to  Siberia,  Japan,  Timbuctoo.  Yet  he  will 
find  that  the  spirit  which  is  in  them  journeys  faster 
than  he,  and  greets  him  on  his  arrival,  —  was  there 
already  long  before  him.  The  missionary  must  be 
carried  by  it,  and  find  it  there,  or  he  goes  in  vain. 
Is  there  any  geography  in  these  things?  We  call 
them  Asiatic,  we  call  them  primeval;  but  perhaps 
that  is  only  optical ;  for  Nature  is  always  equal  to 
herself,  and  there  are  as  good  eyes  and  ears  now  in 
the  planet  as  ever  were.  Only  these  ejaculations  of 
the  soul  are  uttered  one  or  a  few  at  a  time,  at  long 
intervals,  and  it  takes  millenniums  to  make  a  Bible. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  books  which  the  old  and  the 
later  times  have  yielded  us,  which  will  reward  the 
time  spent  on  them.  In  comparing  the  number  of 
good  books  with  the  shortness  of  life,  many  might 
well  be  read  by  proxy,  if  we  had  good  proxies ;  and 
it  would  be  well  for  sincere  young  men  to  borrow  a 
hint  from  the  French  Institute  and  the  British  Asso 
ciation,  and,  as  they  divide  the  whole  body  into  sec 
tions,  each  of  which  sits  upon  and  reports  of  certain 
matters  confided  to  it,  so  let  each  scholar  associate 
himself  to  such  persons  as  he  can  rely  on,  in  a  literary 


414  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

club,  in  which,  each  shall  undertake  a  single  work  or 
series  for  which  he  is  qualified.  For  example,  how 
attractive  is  the  whole  literature  of  the  "  Roman  de 
la  Rose,"  the  "  Fabliaux,"  and  the  gaie  science  of 
the  French  Troubadours !  Yet  who  in  Boston  has 
time  for  that  ?  But  one  of  our  company  shall  under 
take  it,  shall  study  and  master  it,  and  shall  report  on 
it,  as  under  oath ;  shall  give  us  the  sincere  result,  as 
it  lies  in  his  mind,  adding  nothing,  keeping  nothing 
back.  Another  member,  meantime,  shall  as  honestly 
search,  sift,  and  as  truly  report,  on  British  mythology, 
the  Round  Table,  the  histories  of  Brut,  Merlin,  and 
Welsh  poetry ;  a  third  on  the  Saxon  Chronicles,  Rob 
ert  of  Gloucester,  and  William  of  Malmesbury ;  a 
fourth,  on  Mysteries,  Early  Drama,  "  Gesta  Romano- 
rum,"  Collier,  and  Dyce,  and  the  Camden  Society. 
Each  shall  give  us  his  grains  of  gold,  after  the  wash 
ing  ;  and  every  other  shall  then  decide  whether  this 
is  a  book  indispensable  to  him  also. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

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